OCCASIONAL 
^  PAPERS  f^ 


H-B- IRVING 

X  Jt,        A^J*        ^m,  ^.  ^^    »      .«,  A.    ^.   x_^* 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 


CAROLYN  KAPLAN 


IRVING  F 
EPHRAIM 

BOOKSELLERS 

80FHANW.IN  ST 

WORCESTER        Mm. 


OCCASIONAL     PAPERS 

DRAMATIC  AND    HISTORICAL 


OCCASIONAL     PAPERS 

DRAMATIC    AND    HISTORICAL 


BY 

H.    B.    IRVING,    M.A.    OXON. 

AUTHOR    OF 

"  LIFE    OF   JUDGE    JEFFREYS,"   AND 
"STUDIES    OF  FRENCH    CRIMINALS" 


BOSTON 
SMALL   MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

1907 


in 
i 


PREFACE 

T  HAVE  ventured  to  publish  these  occasional 
papers  in  the  hope  that  the  few  who 
did  me  the  honour  of  hearing  or  reading 
them  may  care  to  possess  them  in  book  form, 
and  that  to  the  many  who  have  neither  heard 
nor  read  them  the  subjects  of  which  they  treat 
may  be  sufficiently  interesting  in  themselves  to 
help  to  while  away  a  leisure  hour. 

H.  B.  IRVING. 


The  Publishers  desire  to  express  their 
thanks  to  Sir  James  Knowles,  W. 
L.  Courtney,  Esq.,  and  Messrs.  Smith 
Elder  &  Co.  for  permission  to  reprint 
such  of  these  essays  as  have  appeared 
in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  Fortnightly 
Review,  and  Cornhill  Magazine. 


CONTENTS 

PAGK 

THE   ENGLISH   STAGE  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH   CEN- 
TURY        1 

THE  ART  AND   STATUS  OF  THE   ACTOR   ...      65 

COLLEY   CIBBER'S   "APOLOGY" 91 

THE   CALLING  OF  THE  ACTOR 123 

THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  EUGENE  ARAM  .  .  .139 
THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GOODERE  .  .  .161 
THE  FUALDES  CASE  185 


The  English  Stage  in  the 
Eighteenth  Century 


THE     ENGLISH    STAGE     IN     THE 
EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY1 


I  HAVE  selected  as  the  subject  of  the  two  lectures  which 
I  am  to  have  the  honour  of  delivering  to  you  the  history 
of  our  English  stage  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
history  of  our  theatre  has  been  as  glorious  as  it  has  been 
brief.  For  the  three  centuries  of  its  existence  as  a  part  of 
our  national  life,  our  stage  can  point,  with  justifiable  pride, 
to  a  record,  splendid  in  its  achievement,  in  some  respects 
unsurpassed,  a  history  that  may  well  rank  in  quality  and 
distinction  with  those  of  literature  and  art,  and  compare 
worthily  with  the  annals  of  any  of  the  European  theatres. 
I  think,  roughly  speaking,  we  may  say  that  of  those  three 
centuries — the  seventeenth, eighteenth,  and  nineteenth — the 
first  was  the  century  of  great  drama,  the  greatest  drama 
the  world  has  ever  known  ;  the  second  a  century  in  which  the 
interest  shifts  from  the  drama  to  its  exponents,  the  players  ; 
the  third  a  century  which  at  any  rate  we  may  venture  to  say, 
even  though  we  are  yet  so  close  to  it,  will  be  noteworthy 
for  the  extraordinary  advance  made  in  the  presentation  of 
plays  on  the  stage,  the  realisation  of  the  utmost  that  the 
theatre  can  do  in  the  way  of  giving  to  the  work  of  the 
dramatist  a  worthy  setting  ;  a  century  in  which  painting, 
music,  history,  and  archaeology  have  all  been  pressed  into 
the  service  of  the  theatre,  in  a  degree  never  thought  or 

1  Two  lectures  delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution  in  February,  1906. 
Reprinted  from  The  Fortnightly  Review. 


THE   ENGLISH  STAGE 

dreamed  of  by  our  forefathers.  Of  these  periods  of  theatrical 
history,  general  reasons  point  to  the  eighteenth  century  as 
the  one  which  will  at  present  best  repay  study  and  con- 
sideration. For  the  actual  history  of  the  theatre  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  for  the  lives  of  the  dramatists  and 
actors  of  those  days,  our  materials  are  very  scanty  ;  to  one 
seeking  to  gain  a  real  knowledge  of  the  great  men  of  the 
Elizabethan  and  Restoration  theatres,  investigation  can 
only  yield  very  inadequate  and  therefore  disappointing 
results.  The  nineteenth  is  too  near  to  us  to  make  it  in  the 
present  instance  either  profitable  or  expedient  to  deal  with 
its  achievement.  But  the  eighteenth  century  is  not  open 
to  these  objections  ;  in  this  case  the  materials  are  sufficient ; 
our  stage  becomes  for  the  first  time  in  some  measure  living, 
we  can  form  some  idea  of  the  personalities  of  those  who 
make  its  history,  and  we  are  so  far  removed  in  point  of 
time  as  to  be  able  to  view  their  proceedings  with 
impartiality.  And  there  is  one  supreme  reason  why  an 
actor  is  drawn  irresistibly  to  study,  if  he  does  study,  the 
history  of  the  theatre  in  this  eighteenth  century.  It  is,  in 
theatrical  history,  the  century  of  the  actor  ;  he  and  not  the 
dramatist  is  the  dominating  figure,  his  the  achievement 
that  survives,  his  art  that  finds  in  this  century  its  highest 
opportunity  for  distinction.  It  is  the  player,  not  the 
author,  that  fixes  the  attention  of  posterity  in  the  history 
of  the  Georgian  theatre.  For  all  those  plays  that  attracted 
audiences  in  the  eighteenth  century  are  for  the  most  part 
dead  things.  We  can  name  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
those  plays  that  have  survived  and  still  hold  their  place  on 
the  stage.  Home  and  Rowe,  Murphy  and  Colman,  Hill 
and  D'Urfey,  more  or  less  popular  authors  of  the  day,  they 
and  their  works  have  passed  into  oblivion ;  to  read  them 
with  patience  is  beyond  human  power ;  while  as  for 
Addison  and  Steele,  Fielding  and  Dr.  Johnson,  Gibber  and 
Smollett,  their  dramatic  efforts,  successful  or  unsuccessful, 
would  be  buried  in  as  dark  oblivion,  but  for.  the  undying 

4 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

fame  of  their  authors  in  other  branches  of  literature. 
Congreve,  Farquhar,  and  Vanbrugh  live  to-day  as  literature 
and  nothing  else,  while  such  once-popular  plays  as  Home's 
Douglas,  The  Gamester,  The  Honeymoon,  Holcroft's  Road 
to  Ruin,  and  LiHo's  George  Barnwell,  that  survived  at  any 
rate  their  own  immediate  popularity,  have  to-day  all  but 
passed  out  of  recollection  ;  indeed,  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan 
alone,  of  all  these  eighteenth-century  dramatists,  have  given 
to  posterity  imperishable  works  of  genius.  The  tragic 
writing  of  the  eighteenth  century  is  devoid  of  inspiration  ; 
it  is  the  true  product  of  that  Augustan  age  of  English 
literature,  the  age  of  noble  prose,  or  regular,  uniform, 
correct,  but  unimpassioned  poetry.  Tragedy,  bound  hand 
and  foot  by  the  trammels  of  poetical  orthodoxy,  is  lifeless 
and  ponderous  to  the  last  degree ;  Dr.  Johnson's  Irene  is 
the  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  such  attempts.  The  comedies 
are  not  so  insufferable  as  the  tragedies,  but  they  are  for 
the  most  part  purely  ephemeral  productions,  mechanical 
in  construction,  laboured  in  utterance.  Gibber  and  Colman 
do  little  more  than  mark  time  between  the  brilliant  impro- 
priety of  the  age  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve  and  their  more 
decorous  and  skilful  successors,  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan. 

If,  however,  posterity  can  find  nothing  to  kindle  its 
interest  in  the  contemporary  plays  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  it  is  not  so  with  the  players.  For  the  first  time 
in  our  history  we  begin  to  know  something  of  our  actors, 
and  very  interesting  and  entertaining  people  they  turn  out 
to  be  ;  interesting  because  of  the  conditions  under  which 
they  work,  entertaining  because  of  their  agreeable  or 
disagreeable  personalities.  Never  as  an  artist  has  the 
actor  in  this  country  enjoyed  such  opportunities  for  dis- 
tinction, or  occupied  so  prominent  a  place  in  the  art  of  the 
theatre.  Many  causes  contributed  to  this  state  of  things. 
Foremost  of  all,  perhaps,  was  the  absence  of  long  runs — 
the  bane,  from  the  actor's  point  of  view,  of  our  modern 
stage ;  the  constant  change  of  bill  enabled  the  successful 

5 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

actor  in  the  eighteenth  century  to  cultivate  and  exhibit  his 
versatility ;  whilst  the  fact  that  he  never  played  a  long  or 
exacting  part  more  than  three  or  four  times  a  week  enabled 
him  to  husband  his  strength,  maintain  his  freshness,  and 
escape  that  monotony  of  work  which  it  is  difficult  for  an 
actor  not  to  experience  in  the  conditions  of  our  present-day 
theatre,  when  business  considerations  compel  the  theatrical 
manager  to  give  seven  or  eight  performances  a  week  of  a 
successful  play.  Mrs.  Woffington,  one  of  the  most  indus- 
trious of  eighteenth-century  actresses,  was  considered  to 
have  greatly  impaired  her  health  and  hastened  her 
premature  death  by  frequently  playing  six  times  a  week. 
What  would  her  contemporaries  have  said  to  the  labour  of 
some  of  our  modern  actors,  who,  up  to  the  very  end  of  their 
career,  have  played  arduous  and  exacting  characters  unin- 
terruptedly season  after  season  ?  Garrick,  throughout  his 
career,  never  played  more  than  138  nights  in  one  year,  and 
that  the  year  of  his  debut ;  during  his  management  of 
Drury  Lane  he  played  on  an  average  about  70  times 
a  year.  The  run  of  Addison's  Cato  in  1713,  which  lasted 
twenty  nights,  of  the  Beggar's  Opera  in  1728,  lasting 
sixty-two,  were  considered  phenomenal  in  their  length ; 
and  when  in  1750  Garrick  and  Barry,  as  rival  Romeos, 
played  Shakepeare's  tragedy  at  the  two  theatres,  Drury 
Lane  and  Covent  Garden,  for  eight  successive  perform- 
ances, the  indignation  of  the  public  found  vent  in  epigram. 
This  very  rivalry  of  Garrick  and  Barry  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
and  the  excitement  it  created,  is  a  very  striking  instance  of 
the  keen  emulation  of  the  actors  of  that  day  in  following 
one  another  in  classical  parts,  and  of  the  critical  enthusiasm 
that  was  stirred  in  the  public,  whenever  a  new  Othello,  or 
Hamlet,  or  Falstaff  challenged  comparison  with  illustrious 
predecessors.  And  the  opportunity  given  to  these 
eighteenth-century  actors  of  exhibiting  their  skill  was 
rendered  glorious  by  the  proudest  feature  in  the  history 
of  the  Georgian  theatre — the  return  of  Shakespeare  to  the 

6 


IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

stage.  If  the  contemporary  drama  offered  them  but  poor 
material  for  the  exercise  of  their  art,  they  found  in  the 
revival  of  the  great  poet's  fame  all  they  could  desire. 
Coincidently  with  the  appearance  of  David  Garrick  in 
1741,  by  the  labours  of  Pope,  Theobald,  Warburton, 
Johnson,  and  others,  Shakespeare  had  begun  to  take  his 
supreme  place  in  English  literature ;  within  the  previous 
forty  years  nine  editions  of  his  works  had  been  published, 
and  some  ladies  of  rank  had  formed  a  club  to  encourage 
and  support  the  performance  of  his  plays.  This  change 
found  its  immediate  reflection  in  the  theatre.  Whereas 
during  the  early  part  of  the  century  but  eight  or  nine 
sorely  mutilated  plays  of  Shakespeare  had  held  the  stage, 
Garrick,  when  he  went  into  the  management,  gave  the 
public  seventeen  or  eighteen  of  them  annually.  Apart 
from  his  own  admiration  of  Shakespeare,  which  did  not 
hinder  him  from  perpetrating  some  outrageous  improve- 
ments in  his  acting  versions  of  the  master's  plays,  Garrick 
found  that  he  best  consulted  his  own  interests  as  a  manager 
in  giving  his  patrons  frequent  Shakespearean  performances. 
There  was  another  and  a  very  strong  reason  why  the  actor 
of  the  eighteenth  century  was  encouraged,  nay,  driven,  to 
exert  his  powers  to  the  utmost ;  it  lay  in  the  conditions 
under  which  he  was  compelled  to  exercise  his  art.  In  the 
first  place,  he  was  deprived  of  most  of  those  accessories  of 
scenery  and  costume  which  to-day  have  become  part  of  our 
theatre.  It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century  that  any  real  attempt  was  made  by  the  actor  to 
dress  his  characters  in  the  costumes  proper  to  the  period 
of  the  play  in  which  they  figured.  When  in  1773  Macklin, 
to  the  incidental  accompaniment  of  the  Coldstream  March, 
appeared  as  Macbeth,  dressed  in  a  kilt,  he  incurred  all 
the  ridicule  and  opprobrium  of  a  daring  innovator.  The 
ordinary  costume  and  wig  of  the  day,  richer  or  poorer  in 
style  according  to  the  station  of  the  character  represented, 
was  the  only  theatrical  dress  of  the  eighteenth-century 

7 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

actors.  If  we  look  at  the  pictures  in  the  Garrick  Club 
of  Garrick  and  Mrs.  Pritchard  in  Macbeth,  of  Garrick  and 
Mrs.  Gibber  in  Venice  Preserved,  or  Barry  and  Mrs.  Barry 
in  Hamlet,  we  can  get  some  idea  of  the  illusion  that  the 
actor  was  called  on  to  create,  and  could  only  create,  by  the 
magic  of  his  art.  Barry,  as  Hamlet,  is  dressed  in  a  black 
court  suit,  with  the  ribbon  of  the  Danish  Order  of  the 
"  Elephant "  across  his  breast.  Garrick  as  Macbeth  wears 
a  blue  and  red  suit,  richly  trimmed  with  gold,  and  short 
powdered  wig ;  while  the  ladies,  whether  as  Queen  Gertrude 
or  Lady  Macbeth,  are  gorgeous  in  hoops  and  feathers. 
Occasionally  some  attempt  would  be  made  to  dress 
Turkish  or  classical  tragedies  with  some  approach  to 
realism ;  but  such  attempts  were  usually  rather  less 
convincing  than  powdered  wigs  and  court  suits. 

It  was  not  only  on  the  stage  that  the  actor  of  this  day 
had  to  contend  against  formidable  difficulties.  He  had  all 
his  work  cut  out  to  fix  and  hold  the  attention  of  his 
audience.  Until  1762  he  played  on  a  stage  surrounded  by 
fops  and  fine  gentlemen,  "  unlick'd  cubs  of  condition,11  as 
Gibber  terms  them.  These  persons,  lolling  in  the  wings, 
frequently  interrupted  the  actors,  and  occasionally  fought 
with  them.  In  1721  a  noble  but  drunken  earl,  standing 
in  the  wings  during  a  performance  of  Macbeth,  crossed 
the  stage  to  talk  to  a  friend.  Rich,  the  manager, 
expostulated  with  the  nobleman  for  his  breach  of  decorum, 
and  he  promptly  slapped  the  manager's  face.  Thereupon 
Quin  and  two  of  the  other  actors  drew  their  swords  and 
drove  the  earl  and  his  friends  from  the  stage.  But  the 
gentlemen,  not  to  be  defeated,  rushed  into  the  boxes  and, 
cutting  and  slashing  right  and  left,  proceeded  to  destroy 
the  furniture ;  they  were  only  stopped  from  doing  further 
damage  by  the  resolute  action  of  Quin,  who,  calling  the 
watch  to  his  assistance,  arrested  the  rioters  and  haled  them 
before  the  magistrates.  A  less  disastrous  instance  of  these 
curious  interruptions  was  that  of  a  gentleman  who  was  so 

8 


IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

stirred  by  the  beauty  of  Mrs.  Woffington's  performance  of 
Cordelia  in  King  Lear  that  he  could  not  refrain  from 
coming  on  to  the  stage  and  embracing  her  in  the  sight  of 
the  audience.  Gibber,  during  his  management,  did  some- 
thing to  mitigate  the  intrusion  of  these  lollers  in  the 
wings  ;  but  it  was  left  to  Garrick  to  abolish  them. 

In  these  days  the  pit  was  looked  on  as  containing  the 
critical  part  of  the  audience.  It  occupied  the  whole  of 
the  floor  of  the  theatre,  right  up  to  the  orchestra.  With 
the  exception  of  the  boxes  where  the  ladies  and  people  of 
quality  sat,  which  cost  four  shillings,  the  pit  seats  at  half 
a  crown  were  the  most  expensive  in  the  theatre.  Macklin, 
in  his  old  age,  has  left  us  a  description  of  these  pittites 
which  gives  some  notion  of  the  awe  in  which  they  were 
held  by  the  actors.  "  You  then  saw,"  he  said,  speaking  of 
his  own  day,  "  no  red  cloaks,  and  heard  no  pattens  in  the 
pit,  but  you  saw  merchants  from  the  city  with  big-wigs, 
lawyers  from  the  Temple  with  big-wigs,  and  physicians 
from  the  coffee-houses  with  big-wigs,  and  the  whole 
exhibited  such  a  formidable  grizzle  as  might  well  shake  the 
nerves  of  actors  and  authors."  Here,  in  the  pit,  Dr. 
Johnson  would,  on  occasion,  sit  in  judgment ;  it  was  leaning 
forward  in  the  front  row  of  the  pit  that  the  players  would 
descry,  with  apprehension,  the  burly  form  of  the  poet 
Churchill,  whose  satire  in  The  Rosciad  had  stung  not  a  few 
of  them  to  the  quick. 

And  these  gentlemen  of  the  pit  gave  their  criticisms  very 
freely,  and  often  conveyed  them  very  audibly  to  the 
persons  on  the  stage.  When  four  theatres  at  most  served 
the  needs  of  the  town  and  the  number  of  playgoers  was 
very  limited,  there  grew  up  quite  a  happy,  if  at  times 
inconvenient,  family  feeling  between  actor  and  audience. 
In  the  prologue  that  was  always  spoken  before  any  new 
play,  or  on  any  unique  occasion,  the  actor  speaking  it 
would  frequently  take  the  audience  into  his  confidence,  ask 
their  indulgence  for  his  wife,  who  was  that  night  making 

9 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

her  first  appearance  in  a  new  part,  or  apologise  for  the 
absence  of  some  artist  who  had  quarrelled  with  the 
management.  It  was  this  same  intimacy  of  the  player 
with  his  public  that  betrayed  Garrick  into  the  bad  taste  of 
selecting  Benedick  as  the  part  in  which  to  make  his  first 
appearance  at  Drury  Lane  after  his  honeymoon.  But  it  is 
only  fair  to  say  that  the  audience  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 
suggestiveness  of  the  situation. 

If  an  actor,  however  popular,  was  considered  by  the 
critics  of  the  pit  to  be  ill-suited  to  some  particular  part 
for  which  he  had  been  cast,  or  had  cast  himself,  they  very 
soon  hissed  him  out  of  it.  Gibber,  a  fine  comedian,  who, 
however,  fancied  himself  in  tragedy,  to  which  his  piping 
voice  and  insignificant  appearance  were  quite  unsuited, 
elected  on  one  occasion  to  appear  in  the  dignified  character 
of  Scipio  in  Thomson's  Sophonisba.  After  being  roundly 
hissed  for  two  nights,  he  wisely  desisted,  and  surrendered 
the  part  to  another  actor,  Williams.  When,  the  following 
night,  the  audience  saw  in  the  distance  Scipio  advancing 
to  the  front  of  the  stage  with  stately  strides,  thinking  it 
was  still  Gibber  they  immediately  broke  into  violent  hisses 
and  cat-calls,  and  it  was  only  when  they  recognised 
Williams  that  they  changed  their  hisses  to  loud  applause 

If  players  fell  out — and  they  did  sometimes — their 
quarrels  became  at  once  the  talk  of  the  town,  and  the  pit 
was  quick  to  take  sides.  In  1743  the  actors  at  Drury 
Lane,  headed  by  Garrick  and  Macklin,  revolted  against 
the  reckless  and  discreditable  administration  of  the 
manager,  Fleetwood,  whose  dissipation  and  incompetence 
were  bringing  the  theatre  to  ruin.  Failing,  however,  to 
obtain  from  the  Lord  Chamberlain — then  the  Duke  of 
Grafton — a  licence  to  appear  elsewhere,  the  players  were 
obliged  to  return  to  Fleetwood,  who  agreed  to  receive 
them  all  back,  with  the  exception  of  Macklin.  Garrick,  on 
behalf  of  his  colleagues,  accepted  the  manager's  terms,  and 
Macklin  was  left  out  in  the  cold.  The  friends  of  the 

10 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

latter  chose  to  consider  that  he  had  been  betrayed  by 
Garrick,  though  an  examination  into  the  circumstances  of 
the  negotiations  hardly  bears  out  such  a  charge.  In  any 
case,  on  Garrick's  first  re-appearance  at  Drury  Lane,  the 
Macklinites,  headed  by  a  certain  Dr.  Barrowby,  "a  monster 
of  lewdness  and  prophaneness,"  according  to  some  authori- 
ties, but  a  keen  playgoer  and  critic,  assembled  in  great 
force  to  express  their  indignation  at  their  heroes  treatment. 
On  Garrick's  appearance  they  greeted  him  with  loud  cries 
of  "  Off !  Off ! "  and  pelted  him  so  vigorously  with  peas, 
rotten  eggs,  and  apples  that  he  was  compelled  to  leave  the 
stage.  This  treatment  continued  for  two  nights,  until 
Fleetwood  put  a  party  of  prize-fighters  into  the  pit,  who 
so  pounded  and  pummelled  the  uproarious  Macklinites 
that  they  fled  in  confusion,  and  order  was  restored. 

Even  the  private  characters  or  personal  peculiarities  of 
the  actors  and  actresses  were  not  sacred  to  the  witlings  of 
the  pit.  If  an  actress  of  notoriously  immodest  reputation 
uttered  modest  sentiments  on  the  stage  she  was  liable  to 
be  greeted  with  sarcastic  jeers  ;  if  another  with  a  plain 
face  undertook  a  character  whose  personal  beauty  was 
emphasised  throughout  the  play,  she  would  be  fortunate 
to  escape  without  flouts  from  the  gentlemen  of  the  pit. 
At  the  same  time,  these  critics  were  prodigal  of  applause 
when  moved  or  delighted  by  a  great  actor.  Aaron  Hill, 
in  endeavouring  to  persuade  Garrick  to  appear  as  Caesar  in 
his  adaptation  of  Voltaire's  Death  of  Ca?sar,  told  him  that 
Booth,  in  the  rather  similar  character  of  Cato  in  Addison's 
tragedy,  raised  forty-eight  to  fifty  thundering  claps  for 
delivering  various  noble  sentiments  to  the  audience ;  and 
that  when  Quin  played  the  same  part  the  claps  dwindled  to 
half  a  dozen.  Davies  says  that  Hill's  statements  are 
excessive,  and  they  make  one  a  little  doubtful  of  a  style  of 
acting  the  excellence  of  which  was  measured  by  interrup- 
tions of  this  kind.  At  the  same  time  they  prove  the 
eagerness  and  attention  with  which  the  delivery  of  the 

11 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

lines  of  some  well-known  or  classical  part  by  succeeding 
actors  was  followed  by  the  critical  portion  of  the  audience. 
On  the  night  of  November  14th,  1746,  the  excitement 
of  all  good  playgoers  was  stirred  in  an  unwonted  degree, 
and  criticism  prepared  itself  for  a  great  effort  in  judgment 
and  discrimination.  The  occasion  was  the  appearance  of 
Garrick  and  Quin  at  Drury  Lane  in  Howe's  tragedy,  The 
Fair  Penitent.  It  was  the  first  time  that  the  two  famous 
actors  had  played  together  in  the  same  piece.  Garrick 
was  then  in  the  early  years  of  his  extraordinary  success. 
He  had  come  as  something  of  a  revelation  to  those 
accustomed  to  the  solemn  methods  of  ponderous  and 
declamatory  tragedians.  Quin  was  the  great  representative 
of  this  older  school.  "  If  this  young  fellow  is  right,  we 
have  all  been  wrong,"  he  had  said  of  Garrick's  Richard 
III.  ;  he,  the  portentous  Cato  and  Brutus,  stood  in  surly 
opposition  to  the  lively  Hamlet  and  Richard  of  the  younger 
man,  that  were  drawing  all  the  town. 

Quin,  from  afar,  lured  by  the  scent  of  fame, 
A  stage  Leviathan,  put  in  his  claim," 

writes  Churchill  in  The  Rosciad,  in  enumerating  the  rivals 
of  Garrick.  He  pays  Quin  the  compliment  of  saying : 

No  actor  ever  greater  heights  could  reach 
In  all  the  labour'd  artifice  of  speech. 

But  he  qualifies  his  praise  : 

His  eyes  in  gloomy  socket  taught  to  roll, 
Proclaim'd  the  sullen  habit  of  his  soul, 
Heavy  and  phlegmatic  he  trod  the  stage, 
Too  proud  for  tenderness,  too  dull  for  rage. 

And  as  Hector  making  love  to  Andromache,  or  Horatio 
rebuking  the  gay  Lothario,  Churchill  declares  that  Quin 
was  still  Quin  and  nothing  else. 

With  the  same  cast  of  features  he  is  seen 
To  chide  the  libertine  and  court  the  queen. 

12 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

And  now  as  Horatio  and  Lothario  in  The  Fair  Penitent 
Quin  and  Garrick  were  to  try  conclusions.  Such  an 
occasion  as  this  gives  us  some  conception  of  the  position 
which  the  actor  held  as  an  artist  in  the  theatre  of  the 
eighteenth  century  ;  the  noble  emulation  that  fired  his 
efforts ;  the  closeness,  the  keenness  of  the  criticism  that, 
undistracted  by  extraneous  and  adventitious  aids,  was 
focussed  on  every  detail  of  the  player's  performance.  Acting 
to-day  has,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  ceased  to  be  closely 
criticised,  nor  will  it  be  closely  criticised  again  until  the 
conditions  of  the  eighteenth-century  theatre  can  be  in 
some  form  or  other  reproduced.  When,  on  this  particular 
occasion,  Garrick  and  Quin  met  for  the  first  time  on  the 
stage,  the  applause  of  the  audience  was  so  prolonged  that 
the  two  rivals  were  unnerved.  Quin  is  said  to  have 
changed  colour ;  Garrick  was  ill  at  ease  and  embarrassed. 
Quin,  as  Horatio,  played  the  part  of  an  honest  and  coura- 
geous friend ;  Garrick,  as  Lothario,  that  of  a  dissolute  and 
heartless  libertine.  Victory  rested  with  Garrick.  To  him 
it  was  no  effort  to  be  easy,  graceful,  and  insolent ;  but  Quin 
laboured  heavily  and  ineffectually  through  the  part  of 
Horatio  ;  evety  word  was  gravely  and  ponderously  empha- 
sised. When  Lothario  challenges  him  to  meet  him  in 
deadly  combat, 

West  of  the  town,  a  mile  among  the  rocks, 
Two  hours  ere  noon,  to-morrow  I  expect  thee, 
Thy  single  hand  in  mine, 

Quin,  as  Horatio,  had  merely  to  reply  with  calm  courage : 
I'll  meet  thee  there. 

But  that  was  not  Quints  way.  After  Garrick  had  spoken 
his  challenge,  a  tremendous  pause  ensued — so  long  that  at 
last  one  in  the  gallery  called  out  to  Quin :  "  Why  don't 
you  tell  the  gentleman  whether  you'll  meet  him  or  not  ?  " 
When  at  length  the  long-delayed  answer  was  given,  it  was 

13 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

delivered  with  such  slowness  and  elaboration  as  to  be 
ridiculous.  Garrick  came  off  victorious  in  The  Fair 
Penitent.  And  he  was  equally  victorious  in  Jane  Shore ; 
his  Hastings  was  declared  to  be  a  fine  performance,  whilst 
Quin,  as  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  made  such  impression  as 
might  be  expected  in  a  character  which  he  himself  always 
spoke  of  as  one  of  his  "  whisker "  parts.  But  in  the  first 
part  of  Henry  IV.  success  lay  undoubtedly  with  Quin.  It 
was  in  the  character  of  FalstafF,  and  not  in  tragedy,  that 
Quin  had  established  his  position  as  a  first-rate  actor, 
whilst  Garrick  found  himself  physically  unable  to  cope 
with  the  rough,  soldierly  passion  of  Hotspur ;  his  fine  and 
flexible  voice,  unable  to  sustain  the  loud  vehemence  of  the 
character,  gave  out  after  five  nights,  and  he  had  to  retire 
from  the  cast.  Critics  considered  also  that  he  had  not 
dressed  the  part  with  propriety  ;  a  laced  frock  and  a 
Ramillies  wig  were  held  to  be  too  insignificant  for  the 
dignity  of  the  character. 

That  the  audiences  of  the  eighteenth  century  should  have 
been  freer  in  their  criticisms  and  in  their  method  of  express- 
ing them  than  our  modern  audiences  is  in  no  way  surprising 
if  we  recollect  that  there  was  in  the  eighteenth  century  no 
written  dramatic  criticism  in  the  sense  that  we  understand 
it  now.  The  newspapers  of  the  day  did  not  follow  or 
criticise  theatrical  performances  with  any  regularity ;  this 
form  of  criticism  was  not  instituted  until  early  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  when  Leigh  Hunt  became  the  dramatic 
critic  of  a  paper  called  The  News.  Occasional  pamphlets 
would  deal  with  actors'  performances,  but  as  they  were 
generally  written  to  attack  one  actor  at  the  expense  of 
another,  or  were  the  spiteful  retort  of  some  disappointed 
dramatist,  they  could  be  of  little  value  as  criticisms. 
Indeed,  a  successful  actor  like  Garrick  had  far  more  to 
dread  from  blackmailing  libels  on  his  private  character 
than  from  strictures  on  his  acting.  It  was  an  age  when 
scurrilous  personalities  were  the  accustomed  weapons  of 

14 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

literary  and  artistic  quarrels ;  and  Gibber  and  Garrick 
came  in  for  their  full  share  of  such  things.  But  of  reviews 
and  sane  criticism  there  was  little  enough.  What  we  learn 
of  the  art  of  the  actors  of  the  eighteenth  century  we  learn 
from  books  such  as  Gibber's  Apology,  Churchill's  Rosciad. 
Davies's  Life  of  Garriclt,  and  his  Dramatic  Miscellanies, 
and  the  various  letters  and  memoirs  of  the  time.  Occasion- 
ally an  enthusiastic  playgoer  would  publish  an  elaborate 
treatise  on  the  art  of  the  "  Actor,""  as  that  in  which  the 
author  propounds  and  answers  such  interesting  questions  as 
whether  an  actor  can  have  too  much  fire ;  whether,  if  he 
be  a  comedian,  he  must  possess  what  the  author  terms  the 
"  interior  qualification  "  of  a  gay  and  happy  disposition  ; 
or  whether  he  who  plays  the  hero  of  tragedy  should  have 
the  "  interior  qualification  "  of  an  elevated  soul ;  whether 
players  who  are  naturally  amorous  are  the  only  ones  who 
should  impersonate  lovers  on  the  stage ;  and  the  most 
important  and  delicate  question,  whether  there  should  be 
a  real  or  apparent  conformity  between  the  age  of  the  actor 
and  that  of  the  character  he  is  representing.  This  exhaus- 
tive treatise,  en  titled  The  Actor,\vas  published  anonymously, 
but  it  has  been  attributed  to  Aaron  Hill,  one  of  the  most 
ardent  devotees  of  theatrical  art  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
a  warm-hearted  and  benevolent  gentleman,  who  lost  a 
fortune  in  various  schemes  that  were  to  benefit  his  fellow- 
men.  The  theatre  was  his  ruling  passion.  His  love  of 
classical  tragedy  led  him  not  only  to  christen  his  children 
Julius  Caesar,  Calliope,  Urania,  and  Minerva,  but  to  trans- 
late Voltaire's  Merope  and  Mort  de  Cesar;  his  keen  interest 
in  acting  prompted  him  to  bestow  advice  and  instruction  so 
liberally  on  the  players  that  they  came  to  regard  him  as 
something  of  a  nuisance.  If  he  be  the  author  of  The  Actor 
their  impatience  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  he  is  mighty 
severe  in  his  strictures  on  some  of  the  players  and  tiresome 
in  his  praises  of  others.  He  does  not  hesitate  to  attribute 
the  shortcomings  of  Mrs.  Bellamy  on  the  stage  to  the  hurry 

15 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

of  her  passions  and  the  multitude  of  her  lovers  at  home  ; 
whilst  the  improvement  he  has  discerned  in  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton's  acting  is,  in  his  opinion,  to  be  set  down  to  the  fact 
that,  for  the  last  two  years,  her  domestic  arrangements  have 
been  in  a  more  tranquil  state.  She,  too,  is  sharply  rebuked 
for  taking  too  much  pains  about  her  face  and  too  little 
about  her  mind ;  the  author  prophesies  that,  if  she  is  not 
more  careful,  when  "  her  face  (as  in  time  it  will  be)  is  not 
worth  a  farthing,  her  mind  will  not  be  worth  a  fiftieth  part 
of  one." 

Some  of  his  reflections  are  pertinent  enough,  as  when  he 
speaks  of  the  many  who  thoughtlessly  adopt  the  calling 
of  the  actor,  when  they  can  have  no  more  hope  of  succeed- 
ing in  it  "  than  a  fat  fellow  wheezing  with  asthma  could 
hope  to  win  the  prize  in  a  foot-race,"  or  of  that  "  set  of 
wretches,  the  perfunctory  players,  who  deliver  their  parts 
as  if  they  were  easing  themselves  of  a  burden  which  they 
were  hired  for  carrying,  and  in  pain  till  they  were  rid  of." 
"  Let  a  man  not  think,"  he  writes,  "  that  all  an  actor  needs 
is  to  have  a  memory  and  the  power  of  speaking,  walking, 
and  tossing  his  arms  about."  His  concluding  sentiments 
are  applicable  to  other  centuries  as  well  as  his  own.  He 
protests  against  the  tendency  of  the  critics  of  his  own  day 
to  discourage  young  players  who  attempt  great  characters ; 
aspiring  genius  which  has  "  some  merit  and  the  necessary 
requisites  from  nature "  should,  he  thinks,  be  stimulated, 
not  depressed ;  he  deprecates  the  common  folly  of  admiring 
the  actors  of  the  past  much  more  than  they  were  admired 
when  they  were  alive,  in  order  to  dash  the  spirits  of  their 
successors,  five  or  six  of  whom  he  declares  to  be  equal  to 
any  of  those  old  actors  so  greatly  commended. 

This  treatise  is  instructive,  because  it  illustrates  the  close 
attention  with  which  the  work  of  actors  was  scrutinised  by 
a  critical  playgoer.  But  it  will  not  bear  comparison  with 
the  two  classics  of  theatrical  literature  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  Colley  Gibber's  Apology  for  His  Life  and 

16 


IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

Churchill's  poem  of  The  Rosciad.  These  two  works, 
though  comparatively  little  known  to  modern  readers, 
are  both  of  them  remarkable,  the  former  as  a  lively 
autobiography  that  delighted  such  opposite  critics  as  Swift 
and  Horace  Walpole,  the  latter  as  one  of  the  happiest 
productions  of  that  genius  for  satire  which  is  the  dis- 
tinguishing characteristic  of  the  poetic  literature  of  the 
century. 

Colley  Gibber,  actor,  manager,  poet,  and  dramatist,  holds 
an  unique  position  among  the  players  of  his  time.  His 
versatility  is  in  itself  remarkable.  As  an  actor,  if  he  failed 
in  tragedy,  in  comedy  he  was  the  creator  of  characters  now 
forgotten,  but  in  his  own  time  celebrated  and  admired ;  he 
was  the  original  Lord  Foppington  and  Sir  Novelty  Fashion. 
These  two  characters  belonged  to  plays  of  his  own  making, 
for  Gibber  was  also  a  prolific  dramatist.  He  turned  out 
a  number  of  comedies,  very  popular  and  successful  in  their 
day,  some  tragedies  that  were  less  popular,  a  few  masques 
and  interludes,  and  adapted  for  the  stage  two  of  Shake- 
speare's plays,  one  an  outrageous  mutilation  of  King  John 
with  the  cumbrous  title  of  Papal  Tyranny  in  the  Reign  of 
King  John,  the  other  a  version  of  Richard  III.  which,  until 
about  thirty  years  ago,  held  the  stage  in  preference  to  the 
original.  As  a  poet,  Gibber  attained  to  the  office  of 
Laureate,  and  that  is  all  that  need  be  said.  It  is  as 
a  theatrical  manager  that,  with  all  his  faults,  he  extorts 
our  admiration  and  respect.  His  management  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  extending  over  more  than  twenty  years,  from 
1711  to  1733,  is  a  memorable  epoch  in  theatrical  history. 
At  the  opening  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  state  of  the 
theatre  •  was  anything  but  palmy.  The  stage  was  still 
staggering  under  Jeremy  Collier's  vehement  and  well-merited 
denunciation  of  its  impropriety;  the  older  generation  of 
actors,  with  the  exception  of  Betterton,  had  passed  away, 
and  had  as  yet  left  no  successors.  The  actors  were  divided 
into  two  companies  :  one  was  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  under 

17  c 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

Betterton,  where,  says  Gibber,  "  the  players  were  most  of 
them  too  advanced  in  years  to  mend  " — Betterton  himself 
was  .seventy — the  other  was  at  Drury  Lane,  under  Rich  ; 
and  here  the  actors,  Gibber  himself  among  them,  he 
described  as  "too  young  to  be  excellent."  But  the 
younger  comp;uiv  was  the  more  successful  of  the  two, 
and  all  would  have  gone  well  with  them  but  for  the 
impossible  character  of  their  manager,  Ghristopher  Rich. 
Originally  a  lawyer,  he  was  one  of  those  persons  who  enter 
into  theatrical  business  with  the  sole  purpose  of  getting  as 
much  money  as  they  can  out  of  it,  regardless  of  the  claims 
of  art  or  the  feelings  of  their  artists.  To  this  excusable 
insensibility  Rich  added  positive  dishonesty.  His  ambition 
as  a  manager  was  to  cheat  his  actors  out  of  as  much  of  their 
legitimate  gains  as  he  could  ;  and  as  a  lawyer  he  was  able 
to  do  this  with  some  skill.  At  length,  however,  his  mis- 
conduct led  to  a  revolt,  and  after  considerable  negotiation, 
Drury  Lane  came  for  the  first  time  under  the  management 
of  three  actors — Gibber,  Wilks,  and  Doggett.  Now,  for 
the  first  time  for  many  years,  the  theatre  was  properly  and 
honestly  administered.  The  credit  of  this  is  due  chiefly  to 
Gibber  himself.  Wilks,  an  accomplished  actor,  cared  for 
nothing  so  long  as  he  had  good  parts  and  plenty  of  them  ; 
Doggett  retired  from  the  partnership  early  in  its  history, 
and  was  succeeded  by  Barton  Booth,  the  tragedian  and 
original  representative  of  Addi  son's  Cato,  an  amiable, 
indulgent,  and  easy-going  gentleman.  Gibber  was  quite 
equal  to  the  task  imposed  on  him.  His  natural  gaiety  of 
disposition,  his  impudent  self-confidence,  his  shrewdness, 
his  sensible  appreciation  of  facts,  which  his  ingenuous 
vanity  never  impaired,  well  fitted  him  for  the  task  of 
smoothing  down  difficult  colleagues,  facing  reverses,  over- 
coming hostility,  and  making  money.  With  justifiable  pride 
he  declared  that,  during  his  management,  bills  were  paid 
regularly,  that  no  actor  ever  required  a  written  agreement, 
and  that  the  work  of  the  theatre  was  carried  on  with  order 

18 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

and  propriety.  The  much-tried  actor-manager  comes  in 
for  a  great  deal  of  unsympathetic  criticism  ;  by  some  he  is 
even  represented  as  the  great  bane  of  theatrical  art  in  this 
country.  But  history  shows  us  conclusively  that,  so  far,  it 
is  to  the  actor-manager  we  owe  all  the  most  worthy  achieve- 
ment of  our  theatre,  the  preservation  from  decay  and 
disorder  of  all  that  is  highest  in  theatrical  art.  To  Gibber, 
Garrick,  and  John  Kemble,  as  actor-managers,  is  due  the 
credit  of  rescuing  the  theatres  of  the  eighteenth  century 
from  the  dishonesty  or  incompetence  or  extravagance  of 
such  worthless  managers  as  Rich,  or  Fleetwood,  or  Sheridan. 
Gibber  says  truly  of  his  own  record — and  it  applies  to  those 
of  his  immediate  successors — "our  being  actors  ourselves  was 
an  advantage  to  our  government,  which  all  former  managers 
who  were  only  idle  gentlemen  wanted."  In  the  absence 
of  a  State  theatre,  it  has  fallen  to  the  task  of  individual 
actors  to  do  what  they  can  to  uphold  the  finer  traditions 
of  our  stage;  and  history  proves  to  us  that,  in  face  of 
difficulties  that  time  has  increased  rather  than  diminished, 
these  actors  have  not  failed  in  their  duty.  Whether  it 
has  brought  them  profit  or  loss,  prosperity  or  ruin,  they 
have  successively  devoted  themselves  to  an  enterprise  which, 
in  almost  every  other  country  but  our  own,  has  been  deemed 
not  unworthy  of  the  assistance  of  the  State.  If,  as  some 
tell  us,  we  are  to  see  in  the  future  a  great  extension  of 
State  control  in  our  domestic  concerns,  it  will  be 
interesting  to  see  if  that  extension  spreads  as  far  as 
the  theatre. 

Gibber  sums  up  very  fairly  the  history  of  his  own 
management.  "Though,""  he  says,  "our  best  merit  as 
actors  was  never  equal  to  that  of  our  predecessors,  yet  I 
will  venture  to  say  that  in  all  its  branches  the  stage  had 
never  been  under  so  just,  so  prosperous,  and  so  settled  a 
regulation  for  forty  years  before."  It  is  true  that  in 
Gibber's  time  no  actor  of  genius  appeared  who  could 
challenge,  to  those  who  remembered  him,  the  supreme 

19 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

excellence  of  Betterton.  Though  the  best  part  of  his 
career  belongs  to  the  seventeenth  century,  Betterton  was 
still  playing  Hamlet  in  1709  at  the  advanced  age  of 
seventy-four,  and  playing  it  with  a  successful  assumption 
of  youth  that  extorted  the  admiration  of  Steele.  Gibber 
does  his  best  to  give  posterity  some  notion  of  the  extra- 
ordinary powers  of  this  great  actor,  and,  as  far  as  such 
a  thing  is  possible,  he  is  not  altogether  unsuccessful. 
Though  Betterton "s  voice  was  manly  rather  than  sweet,  his 
figure  short  and  inclining  to  corpulence,  his  limbs  athletic 
rather  than  delicate,  yet  with  these  disadvantages  he  had 
that  personality,  that  something  indefinable  in  bearing  and 
countenance,  which,  from  the  moment  of  his  appearance 
on  the  stage,  seemed  to  seize  and  rivet  the  attention  of  the 
audience,  the  eyes  and  ears  of  even  the  giddy  and  the 
inadvertent.  Betterton  must  have  had  just  that  quality  of 
personal  magnetism — there  seems  no  better  word  by  which 
to  describe  this  peculiar  attribute — which  is  as  essential  to 
the  great  actor  as  it  is  to  the  great  orator,  the  great 
statesman,  the  great  soldier,  which  is,  indeed,  a  part  of 
what  men  call  greatness.  As  an  actual  instance  of  the 
method  of  Betterton's  art,  Gibber  describes  for  us  his 
treatment  of  the  scene  in  Hamlet,  in  which  the  Prince  first 
sees  his  father's  spirit.  It  was  the  custom,  he  says,  of  most 
actors,  on  seeing  the  ghost,  to  throw  themselves  into  a 
strained  and  violent  tone  of  voice  expressive  of  rage  and 
fury,  and  bring  down  thunders  of  applause  by  the  force  of 
their  declamation.  Betterton  was  the  first  to  give  to  the 
scene  its  real  significance  ;  it  was  with  mute  amazement  he 
first  looked  on  his  dear  father's  spirit,  and  then  in  a  solemn, 
trembling  voice,  which  made  the  ghost  as  terrible  to  the 
spectator  as  to  himself,  with  awe  and  reverence,  from  which 
all  thought  of  violence  or  defiance  was  banished,  he 
addressed  the  spirit.  One  writer  avers  that  in  this  scene 
Betterton's  countenance,  which  was  naturally  ruddy  and 
sanguine,  turned  as  white  as  his  neckcloth  in  the  stress  of 

20 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURA 

his  emotion.  If  this  be  true,  he  was  not  only  a  great,  but 
peculiarly  gifted,  actor.  But  the  whole  description  is 
perhaps  a  little  highly  coloured,  for  the  same  author  says 
that  at  the  sight  of  Betterton's  horror  and  distress  the 
blood  of  the  audience  seemed  to  shudder  in  their  veins. 
More  convincing  than  such  criticism  as  this,  is  the  testi- 
mony of  Barton  Booth,  the  tragedian,  who  succeeded 
Betterton  in  "  many  of  his  characters."  "  When  I  acted 
the  ghost  with  Betterton,"  said  Booth,  "instead  of  my 
aweing  him,  he  terrified  me.  But  divinity  hung  round 
that  man  ! "  Truly  there  must  have  been  about  Betterton 
a  grandeur,  a  nobility  of  soul,  that  on  the  stage  and  in 
private  life  alike  compelled  the  love  and  veneration  of  the 
men  who  knew  him.  It  was  this  love  and  respect  that 
took  Steele  to  Westminster  Abbey  to  see  the  last  office 
done  to  one  whom,  he  wrote  in  The  Toiler  ^  "  I  have  always 
very  much  admired,  and  from  whose  action  I  had  received 
more  strong  expressions  of  what  is  great  and  noble  in 
human  nature  than  from  the  arguments  of  the  most  solid 
philosophers,  or  the  descriptions  of  the  most  charming 
poets  I  have  ever  read."  A  greater,  a  finer  tribute  was 
never  paid  to  an  actor.  If  the  eighteenth  century  produced 
in  Garrick  Betterton's  equal  as  a  player,  perhaps  his 
superior  in  some  respects,  Garrick  never  held  in  men's 
hearts  the  place  that  Betterton  held  in  the  love  and  esteem 
of  his  contemporaries. 

History  repeats  itself  in  the  theatre  as  elsewhere.  The 
treatment  of  this  very  scene  with  his  father's  ghost  which 
made  Betterton's  Hamlet  something  of  a  revelation  in  his 
day,  is  the  same  that  impressed  a  German  critic  who  witnessed 
the  Hamlet  of  David  Garrick,  and  made  Fielding  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Partridge  in  Tom  Jones  the  famous  criticism 
of  Garrick's  deportment  in  this  scene.  The  secret  of  all 
these  striking  and  immediate  successes  by  which  in  the 
past  actors  have  suddenly  leapt  into  fame  has  at  all  times 
been  a  return  to  nature  in  the  presentment  of  some 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

character,  a  revolt  against  the  staginess  and  unreality  of  a 
hide-bound  convention,  a  treatment  of  a  character  or  a 
scene  that,  instead  of  calling  down  the  customary  applause 
which  an  experienced  actor  can  always  provoke  by  tricks  of 
declamation,  quite  regardless  of  good  sense,  produces 
rather  that  mute  astonishment  in  an  audience  which  is 
more  eloquent  to  the  artist  than  the  clapping  of  hands. 
And  just  as  Garrick  in  Richard  III.  and  Hamlet,  by  a 
return  to  nature  brought  back  on  to  the  stage  the  true  spirit 
and  genius  of  acting  which  had  died  for  a  time  with 
Betterton,  so  did  Edmund  Kean  repeat,  more  than  seventy 
years  after,  the  striking  success  which,  in  1741,  Charles 
Macklin  had  made  in  the  character  of  Shylock  by  playing 
the  Jew  for  the  first  time  as  a  real  and  serious  human 
being.  Kean  was  a  genius  and  Macklin  was  not ;  Kean 
leapt  into  a  fame  which  did  not  depend  only  on  his 
conception  of  Shylock ;  Macklin  made  no  deep  impression 
in  any  other  Shakespearean  character.  But  both  these 
actors  were  courageous  enough  to  depart  from  tradition  in 
their  reading  of  this  particular  part,  to  face  at  rehearsal 
nothing  but  discouragement,  ridicule,  or  contempt  from 
their  fellow -actors,  and  were  sufficiently  gifted,  sufficiently 
masters  of  their  art,  to  convince  audiences  accustomed  to 
laugh  at  the  grotesque  and  comic  Jew  of  stage  conven- 
tion that  Shylock,  whatever  the  unreality,  the  fancifulness 
of  the  fable  of  the  play,  was  a  living,  breathing  embodi- 
ment of  a  type  conceived  and  executed  by  the  dramatist  in 
all  seriousness  and  earnestness. 


II 

ROBERT  WILKS,  Barton  Booth,  and  Mrs.  Oldfield  are  the 
principal  figures  in  stage  history  during  Gibber's  time,  and, 
if  not  three  of  the  greatest,  they  are  three  of  the  mo.sL 
amiable  and  distinguished  persons  who  have  ever  adopted 
the  calling  of  a  player.  Many  are  apt  to  think  that  the 

22 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

actors  of  the  past  were  people  of  obscure  and  vulgar 
origin,  mere  strollers,  who  sacrificed  little  in  following  an 
ignoble  and  despised  occupation.  Such  a  view  is  incorrect. 
The  majority  of  those  players  who  attained  to  fame  were 
of  gentle  birth,  many  of  them  the  equals  in  manners  and 
culture  of  the  distinguished  persons  with  whom  the 
successful  actor  or  actress  of  the  day  was  invited  to 
associate.  Of  the  three  just  alluded  to,  Wilks  was  grand- 
son of  a  judge,  and  gave  up  a  lucrative  post  in  the  War 
Office  at  Dublin  to  become  an  actor ;  Booth  was  the  son  of 
a  country  gentleman,  related  to  the  Earls  of  Warrington  ; 
and  Mrs.  Oldfield  the  daughter  of  a  captain  in  the  Army. 
Gibber,  Quin,  Garrick,  Foote,  Macklin,  Henderson,  Mrs. 
Barry,  and  Mrs.  Clive  all  came  of  what  we  may  call 
respectable  antecedents. 

Robert  Wilks  excelled  as  an  actor  by  the  refinement,  the 
grace,  the  charm  of  his  personality.  He  could  not  rise  to 
great  heights,  but  in  such  a  character  as  Prince  Hal  in 
Henry  IV.  he  was  the  embodiment  of  elegance,  gallantry, 
and  high  spirit.  Wilks  had  feeling  as  well  as  charm  ;  "  to 
beseech  gracefully,  to  approach  respectfully,  to  pity,  to 
mourn,  to  love,1"1  said  Steele,  "  are  the  places  wherein  Wilks 
may  be  said  to  shine  with  the  utmost  beauty.11  Though 
his  love  of  his  calling  made  him  in  the  theatre  too  greedy 
of  work,  too  impatient  of  rivals,  and  so  a  constant  source 
of  trouble  to  his  colleague  Gibber,  Wilks  was  in  private 
life  a  generous,  warm-hearted  gentleman  of  high  character, 
whose  kindness  to  Farquhar  and  Savage  testifies  to  the 
unfeigned  goodness  and  liberality  of  his  disposition. 

His  colleague  in  management,  and  in  some  parts  his 
rival,  Barton  Booth,  was  the  great  tragedian  of  his  day. 
A  man  of  scholarly  tastes,  educated  at  Westminster  and 
Cambridge,  he  fled  from  these  highly  respectable  sur- 
roundings to  join  a  company  of  strolling  players.  His  fine 
voice  and  dignified  bearing  soon  brought  him  to  the  front. 
He  had  no  sense  of  humour ;  comedy  he  was  unable  to 

23 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

appreciate  ;  but  in  such  parts  as  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet, 
Othello,  Cato,  in  which  a  sense  of  humour  is  hardly  a 
necessity,  he  was  unrivalled  in  his  day.  It  was  Addison's 
Cato  which  made  Booth's  reputation  and  fortune.  No  one 
reads  Cato  now,  but  when  it  was  produced,  in  1713,  its 
success  was  phenomenal ;  it  ran  for  the  ,  then  astonishingly 
long  period  of  thirty-five  nights ;  and  Booth's  performance 
so  pleased  Lord  Bolingbroke  that  he  used  his  influence  to 
get  him  made  one  of  the  managers  of  Drury  Lane.  The 
refined  solemnity  of  Booth  must  have  found  full  scope  for 
its  employment  in  the  title-role  of  Addison's  tragedy  ;  one 
can  see  him  sitting  in  the  last  act,  according  to  the  stage 
directions,  "  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  in  his  hand  Plato's 
book  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Sotil"  a  drawn  sword  on 
the  table  beside  him  ;  one  can  hear  Cato's  groans  off 
stage: 

But  hark  !   what  means  that  groan  ? 
says  his  son  : 

Oh  !  give  me  way  ! 

He  rushes  off  to  his  father's  aid.  One  of  those  left  on  the 
stage  exclaims : 

Ha  !   a  second  groan.     Heaven  guard  us  all  ! 

Cato  is  brought  on  dying  from  a  self-inflicted  wound.  At 
the  end  of  a  long  speech  he  at  length  gives  up  the  ghost 
with  the  words : 

Oh  !   ye  powers  that  search 

The  heart  of  man,  and  weigh  his  inmost  thoughts, 

If  I  have  done  amiss,  impute  it  not ! 

The  best  may  err  ;  but  you  are  good — and — oh  ! 

This  final  "  and — oh  ! "  of  Cato  is  worthy  to  rank  with  the 
more  famous  "  Oh,  Sophonisba,  Sophonisba,  oh  ! v  of 
Thomson's  tragedy,  as  typical  of  the  stilted,  mechanical, 

24 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

uninspired  muse  of  "these  eighteenth-century  writers  of 
tragedy.  It  must  have  indeed  demanded  a  genius  such  as 
Garrick  to  give  life  and  animation  to  the  soulless  characters 
that  fill  the  prolix  tragedies  of  Rowe  and  Henry  Jones  and 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Miller.  But  men  were  quite  satisfied  in  his 
day  with  such  plays,  and  with  the  grave  and  rounded 
utterance  with  which  Booth  spoke  their  inanimate  lines  ; 
though  at  times,  we  are  told,  the  popular  tragedian 
would  have  a  lethargic  fit  on  him,  and  then  would  not 
choose  to  exert  himself  in  the  part  he  was  playing. 
With  that  freedom  of  criticism  which  distinguishes  the 
audiences  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  Booth,  on  one 
occasion,  was  acting  with  unusual  apathy,  a  gentleman  in 
a  stage-box  sent  him  a  polite  note  asking  him  whether  he 
was  acting  for  his  own  diversion  or  that  of  the  public.  At 
other  times  the  sight  of  a  friend  of  Addison's  sitting  in 
the  pit,  or  an  Oxford  man  whose  judgment  he  respected, 
would  be  sufficient  to  rouse  Booth  to  exert  his  full  powers. 
Booth,  like  Wilks,  was  a  man  of  an  open  and  generous 
disposition,  loved  and  respected  by  many  friends. 

Indeed,  there  would  seem  to  have  been  no  more  popular 
people  in  their  day  than  these  three  prime  favourites  of  the 
stage— Wilks,  Booth,  and  Mrs.  Oldfield.  Mrs.  Oldfield 
was  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  of  the  three.  What 
Fielding  termed  her  "ravishing  perfection,"  her  beauty, 
the  fire  and  spirit  of  her  acting,  the  charm  and  refinement 
of  her  personality,  made  her,  both  on  and  off  the  stage,  the 
idol  of  friends  and  public.  "  Women  of  the  first  ranks,11 
writes  Horace  Walpole,  "  might  have  borrowed  some  part 
of  her  behaviour  without  the  least  diminution  of  their 
sense  of  dignity."  As  an  artist  she  took  high  rank  both  in 
comedy  and  tragedy,  though  her  inclination  lay  towards 
the  former ;  she  hated,  she  said,  as  a  tragedy  queen,  to 
have  a  page  dragging  her  train  about,  and  would  rather 
such  parts  were  given  to  her  rival,  Mrs.  Porter.  Her 
countenance,  benevolent  like  her  heart,  was  capable  of 

25 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

expressing  the  most  varied  passions.  When  an  impudent 
beau,  for  some  private  grudge,  rose  and  hissed  her  from  the 
pit,  she  turned  to  him,  paused,  and  uttered  the  words, 
"  Poor  creature  !  "  with  such  withering  contempt  that  the 
unmannerly  interrupter  was  glad  to  sit  down  again. 
"  Even  her  amours,"  says  one  writer,  "  seemed  to  lose  that 
glare  which  appears  round  the  persons  of  the  failing  fair  ; 
neither  was  it  ever  known  that  she  troubled  the  repose  of 
any  lady's  lawful  claim  ;  and  was  far  more  constant  than 
millions  in  the  conjugal  noose."  Generous  to  her  friends, 
faithful  to  her  lovers,  consummate  in  her  art,  Mrs.  Oldfield 
attended  royal  levees,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Her  death  in  1730,  the  death  of  Wilks  two  years  later, 
the  retirement  of  Booth,  and  finally  that  of  Gibber  in 
1732,  closed  a  period  in  stage  history  which,  if  not 
glorious,  marked  an  improvement  in  the  general  admini- 
stration and  conduct  of  the  theatre  that  reflects  credit  on 
the  three  managers  of  Drury  Lane.  If  they  did  not  train 
up  any  younger  players  of  conspicuous  talent  to  take  the 
place  of  Wilks  and  Booth,  Gibber  defends  them  by 
reminding  his  critics  that  making  actors  is  not  as  easy  as 
planting  cabbages.  Obscure,  unsuccessful,  disappointed 
authors  uttered  bitter  complaints  against  the  arrogance 
of  Gibber  towards  struggling  playwrights,  and  the  vanity 
of  Wilks  in  rejecting  plays  that  afforded  him  no  oppor- 
tunity for  personal  distinction.  There  may  have  been 
some  justice  in  such  complaints,  but  I  think  we  may  safely 
assume  that  the  judgment  of  Gibber  and  his  colleagues, 
which  was  respected  by  Congreve,  Steele,  and  Farquhar, 
did  not  oppress  or  neglect  much  real  talent.  The  cry 
of  the  disappointed  dramatist  goes  up  unceasingly  through 
the  eighteenth  century.  It  was  generally  uttered  in 
pamphlet  form,  and  made  up  of  diatribes  against  the 
stage,  its  actors  and  its  managers. 

Gibber  pleads  guilty  to  one  reproach,  that  of  encouraging 

26 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

such  new-fangled  foppery  to  draw  the  multitude,  such 
"  monstrous  medleys "  as  the  popular  pantomimes,  pieces 
like  The  Harlequin  Sorcerer,  in  which  music,  dancing,  and 
novel  scenic  effects  were  employed  to  attract  the  more 
giddy  spectators.  As  an  actor  Gibber  had  been  so 
scandalised  by  Christopher  Rich's  attempt  to  bring 
elephants  and  rope-dancers  on  to  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  that  he  had  gone  down  into  the  pit  and  asked  his 
patrons  to  excuse  him  from  appearing  any  longer  on  a  stage 
degraded  by  such  unseemly  exhibitions.  But  as  a  manager, 
Gibber  found  himself  compelled  to  fall  back  on  these  very 
meretricious  shows,  which,  as  an  actor,  he  had  so  gravely 
resented  ;  he  frankly  acknowledges  his  apostasy  and  pleads 
managerial  necessity  as  his  excuse.  Here,  he  says,  was  one 
of  the  deplorable  consequences  of  the  re-division  of  the 
actors  and  actresses  of  London  into  two  companies.  When 
Gibber  first  went  on  the  stage,  there  had  been  only  the 
one  company  of  players  at  Drury  Lane,  a  condition  that 
lasted  for  eleven  years,  until  1695.  In  that  year  Betterton 
seceded  from  Drury  Lane,  and  obtained  from  William  III. 
a  licence  to  open  a  new  theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 
Then,  according  to  Gibber,  began  the  deterioration  in 
theatrical  entertainment.  The  least  successful  of  the  two 
theatres  was  bound,  sooner  or  later,  to  resort  to  illegitimate 
means  in  order  to  make  head  against  its  rival.  Thus 
it  was  that  pantomime,  and,  what  Gibber  regards  with 
almost  equal  indignation,  Italian  opera,  found  its  way  on 
to  the  English  stage.  But  the  cause  of  these  dangerous 
innovations  is  surely  more  general  than  Gibber  is  willing  to 
admit.  There  must  always  be  a  majority  of  the  public 
who  prefer  what  is  light  and  thoughtless  in  theatrical 
entertainment  to  what  is  grave  and  thoughtful,  and  as  life 
becomes  more  strenuous  and  exacting,  their  number  is  not 
likely  to  diminish.  The  serious  drama  will  always  have 
a  harder  fight  for  existence  than  the  gay  and  frivolous,  and 
will  yield  less  profit  to  those  who  devote  themselves  to  its 

27 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

cause.  It  fared  better  in  the  eighteenth  century  than  it 
does  now  ;  but  we  can  see  that  in  Gibber's  day  the  time 
had  come  when  it  was  not  to  have  things  all  its  own  way, 
as  in  the  days  of  Shakespeare  and  Pepys.  The  more 
generally  popular  the  theatre  became,  the  sooner  it  was 
obliged  to  cater  for  all  forms  of  popular  taste,  and  popular 
taste  responded  joyfully  when  it  opened  its  doors  to 
elephants,  rope-dancers,  and  Italian  warblers. 

The  drama's  laws,  the  drama's  patrons  give, 

and  Gibber,  and  Garrick  after  him,  found  themselves,  as 
managers,  obliged  to  sandwich  the  legitimate  drama  between 
opera  and  pantomime.  They  did  so  with  reluctance  ;  but 
managers  such  as  Christopher  Rich  and  his  son  John,  men 
utterly  unsympathetic  towards  actors,  threw  themselves 
with  ardour  into  the  development  of  spectacular  entertain- 
ments. In  1732  John  Rich  moved  his  company  of  players 
from  the  old  theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  to  the  new 
playhouse  in  Covent  Garden,  and  from  this  date  Covent 
Garden  and  Drury  Lane  became  the  two  principal  London 
theatres.  It  was  at  Covent  Garden  that  John  Rich,  under 
the  name  of  "  Mr.  Lun,"  made  himself  famous  as  the  first 
and  greatest  of  English  harlequins.  Says  Churchill, 

See  from  afar, 

The  hero  seated  in  fantastic  car, 
Wedded  to  novelty,  his  only  arms 
Are  wooden  swords,  wands,  talismans,  and  charms ; 
On  one  side  Folly  sits,  by  some  called  Fun, 
And  on  the  other  his  arch-patron  Lun. 
Behind,  for  liberty  athirst  in  vain, 
Sense,  helpless  captive  !  drags  the  galling  chain. 

Pope,  Dr.  Johnson,  Gibber,  and  Churchill  might  satirise  or 
denounce  these  trivial  exhibitions,  and  lament  that  the 
stage  should  be  given  over  to  flying  chariots,  grinning 
dragons,  and  practicable  eggs,  but  they  were  powerless 

28 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

to  confine  the  public  appetite  to  the  plain  fare  of  tragedy 
and  comedy,  unable  to  persuade  them 

To  chase  the  charms  of  sound,  the  pomp  of  show, 
For  useful  mirth  and  salutary  woe. 

It  was  in  a  magnificent  attempt  to  outdo  the  spectacular 
triumphs  of  John  Rich  at  Covent  Garden,  called  the 
Chinese  Festival,  that  Garrick  brought  on  his  head  riotous 
demonstrations  of  indignation  at  Drury  Lane.  He  had 
engaged  for  this  pantomime  some  French  performers,  and, 
as  England  was  at  the  time  at  war  with  France,  the 
Jingoes  of  the  day  thought  they  could  not  better  display 
their  rampant  patriotism  than  by  inflicting  a  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  damage  on  the  property  of  a  manager 
who  had  dared  to  engage  a  handful  of  French  artists. 

A  riot  and  the  demolition  of  the  front  of  his  house  were 
contingencies  that  a  theatrical  manager  in  the  eighteenth 
century  had  to  be  prepared  to  face  ;  instances  of  such  pro- 
ceedings abound  in  the  theatrical  memoirs  of  the  time  ; 
an  alteration  in  prices,  an  unpopular  regulation  by  the 
managers,  the  employment  of  foreigners,  the  non-appearance 
of  an  artist,  the  reported  ill-usage  of  a  popular  actor,  the 
resentment  of  a  player  at  some  act  of  aristocratic  imper- 
tinence, all  these  trivial  causes  on  different  occasions  led  to 
violent  tumults,  the  tearing  up  of  seats,  the  wanton 
destruction  of  furniture  and  decorations.  Resolute  men 
like  Quin  and  Beard,  the  managers  of  Covent  Garden, 
would  withstand  the  rioters;  the  more  timorous  Garrick 
would  bend  before  the  storm ;  but  it  was  on  very  rare 
occasions  that  the  managers  received  any  compensation  for 
their  loss.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  the  punishment  of 
having  his  theatre  gutted  was  quite  out  of  proportion  to 
the  offence  the  manager  might  have  committed,  this  riotous 
disposition  of  certain  portions  of  the  audience  was  some- 
times made  use  of  by  some  mean  and  worthless  individual 
to  gratify — as  in  the  case  of  the  rascally  Fitzpatrick — some 

29 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

private  spite.  Quarrels  and  controversies  of  any  kind  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  literary  or  theatrical,  were  fought 
out  with  a  vigour,  an  absence  of  decorum,  and  an 
unscrupulousness  of  attack  that  enliven,  if  they  do  not 
always  edify,  the  reader. 

One  who  l)ore  himself  stoutly  on  all  such  occasions — 
a  sturdy  and  hard-hitting  adversary,  Avho  killed  two  of  his 
fellow-actors  in  duels,  not,  be  it  said,  of  his  own  seeking, 
was  James  Quin.  He  fills  the  most  prominent  place  in  the 
theatrical  history  of  those  nine  years  that  elapsed  between 
the  retirement  of  Gibber  in  1732  and  the  first  appearance 
of  David  Garrick  in  1741.  The  son  of  an  Irish  barrister, 
himself  intended  for  the  Bar,  lack  of  means  and  con- 
sciousness of  ability  sent  Quin  on  to  the  stage.  He  made 
his  first  success  in  1720,  when  he  persuaded  Christopher 
Rich  to  allow  him  to  appear  as  FalstaflT  in  the  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor.  After  Booth's  death  he  advanced  still 
further  in  public  esteem  by  what  he  modestly  described  on 
the  play-bill  as  "  his  attempt "  to  follow  that  tragedian  in 
his  greatest  part  of  Cato.  He  so  delighted  the  audience 
by  his  attempt  that,  after  his  delivery  of  the  line : 

Thanks  to  the  gods — my  boy  has  done  his  duty  ! 

they  cried  "  Booth  outdone  !  Booth  outdone  !  "  and  after 
he  had  spoken  the  then  famous  soliloquy  on  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul,  the  enthusiasm  reached  such  a  pitch  that, 
in  answer  to  a  vociferous  demand  for  an  "  encore,"  Quin 
was  obliged  to  repeat  the  speech.  From  this  night  Quin, 
as  an  actor,  reigned  supreme  for  ten  years.  It  was  a  solemn 
reign,  dignified,  weighty,  traditional ;  he  was  unsurpassed 
in  such  characters  as  Falstaff  and  Sir  John  Brute,  but  in 
tragedy  he  did  no  more  than  uphold,  with  fine  elocution, 
ponderous  majesty,  and  rugged  independence,  that  solemn 
unreality  of  speech  and  action  which,  both  in  England  and 
France,  was  then  considered  the  appropriate  expression  of 
tragic  sentiment.  As  in  France  Le  Kain  was  the  first  to 

30 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

restore  nature  to  tragic  acting,  so  did  Garrick  in  England, 
by  a  similar  return  to  nature,  expose  the  dulness,  the  life- 
lessness  of  the  settled  methods  of  the  actors  of  the  type  of 
Quin.  And  Quin  had  too  much  good  sense  not  to  see  it 
himself,  for  as  a  man  he  was  the  rather  coarse  embodiment 
of  that  rough  but  ready-witted,  prejudiced  but  generous 
and  warm-hearted  disposition  which  we  admire  and  respect 
in  Dr.  Johnson.  The  few  of  Quin's  sayings  preserved  to 
us  almost  make  one  regret  that  he  had  no  Boswell  by  his 
side.  Lords  and  bishops,  clergy  and  gentry,  all  were 
represented  in  the  circles  of  Quin's  many  friends  who 
delighted  in  his  wit  and  conversation.  He  could  hold  his 
own  in  argument  with  any  man.  One  instance  must 
suffice.  At  some  gathering  Bishop  Warburton,  dictatorial 
and  overbearing,  was  arguing  in  support  of  royal  pre- 
rogative. Quin  said  he  was  a  republican,  and  thought 
that  perhaps  even  the  execution  of  Charles  I.  by  his  subjects 
might  be  justified  :  "  Ay,"  asked  the  indignant  Warburton, 
"  by  what  law  ? "  "  By  all  the  laws  he  had  left  them," 
answered  Quin.  The  shocked  Bishop  then  cited  the  wrath 
of  the  divine  judgment  as  visited  upon  the  regicides  ;  they 
all,  he  said  (though  it  is  not  strictly  true)  had  come  to 
violent  ends.  "  I  would  not  advise  your  lordship,"  said 
Quin,  "to  make  use  of  that  inference,  for,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  that  was  the  case  with  the  twelve  apostles." 
Horace  Walpole  greatly  admired  this  instance  of  the 
player's  readiness  and  aptness  of  retort. 

Quin's  kindness  and  generosity  to  Thomson,  the  poet, 
and  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Bellamy,  eloquently  attest  the 
real  worth  of  the  vigorous,  downright,  resolute  old  actor, 
who  said,  on  his  deathbed,  after  drinking  a  bottle  of  claret, 
"  I  could  wish  that  the  last  tragic  scene  was  over ;  and  I 
hope  I  may  be  enabled  to  meet  and  pass  through  it  with 
dignity." 

Quin  had  retired  from  the  stage  some  fifteen  years  before 
his  death ;  he  had  become  the  warm  friend  of  his  rival, 

31 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

Garrick,  who  wrote  the  epitaph  engraved  on  his  monument 
in  the  Abbey  church  at  Bath  : 

That  tongue  which  set  the  table  in  a  roar, 

And  charmed  the  public  ear,  is  heard  no  more  ! 

Closed  are  those  eyes,  the  harbingers  of  wit, 

Which  spake  before  the  tongue  what  Shakespeare  writ : 

Cold  is  that  hand,  which,  living,  was  stretched  forth 

At  Friendship's  call,  to  succour  modest  worth. 

Here  lies  James  Quiu — Deign,  reader,  to  be  taught 

Whate'er  thy  strength  of  body,  force  of  thought, 

In  Nature's  happiest  mould  however  cast, 

To  this  complexion  thou  must  come  at  last. 

If  the  period  of  Quin's  popularity  had  reared  no  great 
actors,  four  actresses,  who  were  to  contribute  in  no  slight 
degree  to  the  splendour  of  the  reign  of  Garrick,  had,  in 
those  ten  years,  been  advancing  rapidly  to  the  very  front 
of  their  profession.  Mrs.  Gibber,  Mrs.  Pritchard,  Mrs. 
Clive,  and  Margaret  Woffington,  all  these  ladies  had 
already  established  their  artistic  reputations  when,  in 
the  year  1741,  a  young  man  of  twenty-three,  who,  said 
the  play-bill,  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage  before,  leapt 
into  fame  by  his  performance  of  Richard  III.  at  a  second- 
rate  London  theatre.  Mrs.  Gibber  was  a  sister  of  Dr.  Arne, 
the  celebrated  musician.  Charmed  by  her  singing  voice, 
her  brother  had  sent  her  into  opera.  Colley  Gibber  heard 
her ;  he  was  disappointed  with  her  singing,  but  convinced 
that  her  speaking  voice  would,  if  properly  trained,  carry 
her  far  in  the  legitimate  drama.  He  set  about  instructing 
her,  was  astonished  at  her  rapid  progress,  and  permitted 
her  to  make  her  first  appearance  at  Drury  Lane  in  1736, 
in  the  character  of  Zara  in  an  adaptation  of  Voltaire's 
Zaire.  Before  this  event,  Miss  Arne  had  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  marry  her  teacher's  son,  Theophilus.  Than  this 
Theophilus  Gibber  a  more  despicable  scoundrel  has  seldom 
disgraced  any  calling ;  mean  and  contemptible  to  the  last 
degree,  a  bully  and  a  coward,  the  younger  Gibber  has  only 

32 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

found  one  apologist  for  his  turpitude.  This  writer 
attributes  the  peculiar  baseness  of  Theophilus  to  the 
unhappy  fact  that  he  was  born  during  the  progress  of 
the  awful  and  memorable  storm  that  raged  over  London 
on  the  night  of  November  26th,  1703.  Such  a  convulsion 
of  nature  occurring  at  his  birth  may  explain,  if  it  cannot 
reconcile  us  to,  the  depravity  of  Theophilus  Gibber.  In 
Goldsmith's  opinion  it  required  a  somewhat  similar  inter- 
position of  nature  to  save  Theophilus  Gibber  from  his 
ultimate  fate,  the  gallows ;  he  was  drowned  at  sea  during 
a  violent  storm  in  the  Irish  Channel.  When  his  wife  made 
her  debut  at  Drury  Lane  they  had  only  been  married  two 
years,  and  Theophilus  in  the  prologue  pleaded  for  the 
indulgence  of  the  audience : 

But  now  the  Player, 

With  trembling  heart,  prefers  his  humble  prayer. 
To-night  the  greatest  venture  of  her  life 
Is  lost,  or  saved,  as  you  receive — a  wife. 

If  she  conveys  the  pleasing  passions  right, 

Guard  and  support  her  this  decisive  night. 

If  she  mistakes — or  finds  her  strength  too  small, 

Let  interposing  pity — break  her  fall. 

In  you  it  rests  to  save  her  or  destroy  ; 

If  she  draws  tears  from  you,  I  weep — for  joy. 

We  may  presume  that  Theophilus  did  on  this  occasion 
shed  tears  of  joy,  for  his  wife's  success  was  immediate,  and 
in  those  days  a  wife's  independent  earnings  were  her 
husband's  property.  Gibber's  profligacy  and  extravagance 
were  as  shameless  as  they  were  insatiate.  He  soon  made 
wreck  of  his  married  life.  Having  connived  at  his  wife's 
dishonour  in  order  to  get  money  from  her  lover,  he  then 
sued  the  gentlemen  for  damages,  and  so  persecuted  Mrs. 
Gibber,  that  for  two  years  she  left  the  London  stage.  A 
truce  having  been  patched  up,  she  returned  in  1742,  and 
appeared  as  Desdemona  at  Co  vent  Garden.  She  played 

33  D 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

the  part  of  the  ill-used  wife  with  such  real  fervour  and 
pathos,  that  the  audience,  quick  to  recognise  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  occasion,  overwhelmed  her  with  unwonted 
applause.  From  that  moment  Mrs.  Cibber  was  restored 
to  her  place  in  the  public  favour.  As  an  actress  Mrs. 
Cibber  was  remarkable  for  an  extreme  sensibility  to  all  that 
was  tender  and  pathetic.  As  Constance  in  King  John  no 
actress  could  approach  her ;  her  delivery  of  the  lines  : 

Here  I  and  sorrow  sit ; 
This  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it ; 

her  scream  of  agony  as  she  left  the  stage  exclaiming : 
Oh,  Lord  !  my  boy  !  my  Arthur !  my  fair  son  ! — 

these  things  lived  in  the  memory  of  those  who  witnessed 
them  as  supremely  tragic  in  their  expression.  The  great 
fault  of  Mrs.  Gibber's  acting,  less  intolerable  then  than 
now,  was  the  highpitched  "  demi-chant,"  as  it  was  called, 
in  which  she  recited  rather  than  spoke  her  lines ;  she  must 
have  learnt  this  method  of  speaking  from  old  Cibber,  who 
tried  to  force  it  on  his  daughter-in-law's  rival,  Mrs. 
Pritchard,  when  she  was  to  play  Constance  in  his  adapta- 
tion of  King  John.  Mrs.  Pritchard,  an  actress  of  great, 
if  somewhat  rough  and  unrefined,  power,  would  have  none 
of  Gibber's  instruction  ;  she  preferred  untutored  nature  to 
antiquated  art ;  she  opposed  to  the  charm  and  tenderness 
of  Mrs.  Cibber  in  Juliet  and  Desdemona  the  tragic  force 
of  her  Hermione  and  Lady  Macbeth — in  the  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Siddons  the  greatest  of  all  Lady  Macbeths.  Mrs. 
Pritchard  was  a  player  born  and  bred.  Her  first  appear- 
ance had  been  made  at  Bartholomew  Fair ;  with  her  acting 
was  an  instinct ;  it  was  said  that  she  had  never  read  more 
of  the  play  of  Macbeth  than  her  own  part.  Rachel  has 
been  accused  of  somewhat  similar  ignorance.  Talma,  the 
great  French  actor,  declares  that  sensibility  of  tempera- 
ment and  intelligence  are  the  two  principal  ingredients 

34 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

that  go  to  the  making  of  an  actor,  but  claims  the  first  to 
be  more  essential  to  the  artist  than  the  second.  If  he  had 
to  choose  between  the  actor  of  sensibility  and  the  actor  of 
intelligence,  Talma  declares  he  would  unhesitatingly  select 
the  former.  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  Mrs.  Pritchard  in 
private  life  was  a  "  vulgar  idiot,"  but  on  the  stage  seemed 
inspired  by  gentility  and  understanding.  Here  surely  is 
a  striking  instance  of  what  Talma  says  can  be  achieved  by 
sensibility  of  temperament,  uninformed  by  any  great  intelli- 
gence. Mrs.  Pritchard  was  a  woman  of  umblemished  virtue. 
To  those  who  are  inclined  to  believe  that  the  lives  of 
players  are  little  more  than  a  series  of  scandalous  chronicles, 
the  private  lives  of  these  eighteenth-century  actors  and 
actresses  would  come,  if  they  took  the  trouble  to  read 
them,  as  something  of  a  surprise;  to  some  readers,  perhaps, 
something  of  a  disappointment.  They  hardly  yield  as 
much  scandalous  entertainment  as  those  of  the  princes  and 
noblemen  of  the  day.  When  we  consider  the  great  tempta- 
tion that  beset  the  actresses  of  this  time,  the  fierce  light 
that  beat  upon  the  most  private  concerns  of  the  popular 
player,  the  history  of  the  eighteenth-century  theatre  pro- 
vokes fewer  blushes  than  we  might  suppose.  Occasionally 
an  unhappy  career,  like  that  of  the  unfortunate  Miss 
Bellamy,  would  tempt  some  hack  writer  to  put  together 
a  spurious  memoir  of  her  frailties  ;  Mrs.  Baddeley  might, 
for  a  price,  lend  her  name  to  an  account  of  her  singular 
adventures ;  but,  broadly  speaking,  we  shall  find  the  lives 
of  these  famous  actors  and  actresses — Betterton,  Wilks, 
Booth,  Garrick,  Macklin,  Barry,  Henderson,  John  Kemble, 
Mrs.  Clive,  Mrs.  Pritchard,  and  Mrs.  Siddons — as  decorous 
as  those  of  other  people ;  while  even  Mrs.  Oldfield,  Mrs. 
Gibber,  and  Mrs.  Woffington — ladies  of  not  wholly  un- 
blemished reputation — were  quite  seemly  in  the  uncon- 
ventionality  of  their  private  circumstances,  and  not  less 
popular  and  acceptable  in  society  than  their  more 
respectable  colleagues. 

35 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

While  Mrs.  Gibber  and  Mrs.  Pritchard  were  winning 
their  way  to  fame  as  tragic  actresses,  Mrs.  Woffington  and 
Mi's.  Clive  were  proving  themselves  to  be  rare  comedians. 
Mrs.  Woffington  captivated  a  London  audience  in  1740  by 
her  appearance  as  Sir  Harry  Wildair  in  Farquhar's  play 
of  that  name.  This  had  been  one  of  Wilks^s  great  parts  ; 
but  the  piquancy  and  charm  of  Margaret  Woffington's 
performance  of  this  dashing  young  spark  eclipsed  all  former 
memories.  From  that  night  till  her  premature  death  at 
forty-two,  Mrs.  Woffington  reigned  supreme  in  the  higher 
comedy.  She  could  play  Ophelia,  Jane  Shore,  Hermione, 
and  play  them  well ;  but  it  was  in  such  parts  as  Rosalind, 
in  portraying  fine  ladies  of  high  degree,  that  this  daughter 
of  a  Dublin  bricklayer  was  unequalled  by  any  rival.  The 
actress  who  so  shocked  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry  on  her 
visit  to  the  green-room  by  shouting,  with  a  pot  of  porter 
in  her  hand,  "  Confusion  to  all  order ! "  was  the  ideal 
representative  of  the  Lady  Townleys  and  Lady  Betty 
Modishes  of  polite  comedy.  Mrs.  Clive,  also  an  Irish- 
woman, but  of  gentle  birth,  could  not  approach  Mrs. 
Woffington  in  characters  that  called  for  refinement  and 
distinction  of  bearing  ;  she  was  rather  a  low  than  a  high 
comedian,  the  best  "  romp,"  Dr.  Johnson  declared,  he  ever 
saw ;  the  first  of  "  chambermaids,"  a  type  of  character 
almost  extinct  on  the  modern  stage,  but  a  favourite  one 
in  the  comedies  and  farces  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Mrs. 
Clive  was  one  of  the  fortunate  few  who  escaped  the  awful 
censure  of  Churchill  : 


First  giggling,  plotting  chambermaids  arrive, 

Hoydens  and  romps,  led  on  by  General  Clive. 

In  spite  of  outward  blemishes,  she  shone, 

For  humour  famed,  and  humour  all  her  own  : 

Easy  as  if  at  home  the  stage  she  trod, 

Nor  sought  the  critic's  praise,  nor  feared  his  rod 

Original  in  spirit  and  in  ease, 

She  pleased,  by  hiding  all  attempts  to  please. 

36 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

One  attempt  of  Olive's  to  please,  and  that  a  blatant  one, 
must  have  made  the  judicious  shudder,  though  we  are  told 
she  carried  it  through  successfully.  When  she  played 
Portia  the  actress  sought  to  enliven  the  part  by  giving  in 
the  trial  scene  imitations  of  some  of  the  leading  advocates 
of  the  day.  With  a  burlesque  Portia  and,  as  was  then  the 
fashion,  a  comic  Shylock,  the  trial  scene  in  The  Merchant 
of  Venice  must  have  afforded  in  these  days  quite  a 
rollicking  entertainment. 

Both  Mrs.  Clive  and  Mrs.  Woffington  were  generous, 
good-hearted  women,  who  spent  the  greater  part  of  their 
earnings  in  supporting  poor  relations ;  very  troublesome  in 
the  theatre,  worrying  the  life  out  of  their  managers,  and 
quarrelling  violently  at  times  with  each  other.  On  one 
occasion  the  two  Irish  ladies  fell  out  in  the  green-room 
about  their  respective  powers  to  draw  good  houses  ;  they 
used  most  violent  language  to  each  other,  and  Mrs.  Olive's 
brother  caught  hold  of  the  jaw  of  an  Irish  admirer  of 
Mrs.  Woffington,  Mr.  MacSwiney.  "  Let  go  my  jaw,  you 
villain  ! "  exclaimed  MacSwiney.  "  Throw  down  your 
cane ! "  cried  Mrs.  Olive's  brother ;  and  the  ladies  abused 
each  other  roundly,  until  the  manager,  fearing  their  voices 
would  be  heard  on  the  stage,  put  an  end  to  the  scene. 
But,  in  spite  of  occasional  outbursts  of  spleen,  which  in 
ladies  of  uncertain  temper  the  atmosphere  of  the  theatre 
is  liable  to  provoke,  Mrs.  Woffington  and  Mrs.  Clive  were 
both  lovable  creatures.  "  Forgive  her  one  female  error," 
said  a  friend  and  contemporary  of  Margaret  Woffington, 
"  and  she  was  adorned  with  every  virtue ;  honour,  truth, 
benevolence,  and  charity  were  her  distinguishing  qualities." 
Her  last  appearance  was  strangely  pathetic.  She  was  in 
no  condition  of  health  on  the  night  of  May  3rd,  1757,  to 
play  Rosalind  ;  but  she  had  never  disappointed  an  audience, 
and,  like  many  an  actor  before  and  since,  her  pride  would 
not  allow  her  to  fail  in  her  duty  to  the  public.  She  went 
on  to  the  stage  and  played  the  part  as  saucily  and  prettily 

37 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

as  ever  until  she  reached  the  epilogue.  Then,  as  she  spoke 
to  the  audience  the  lines,  "  If  I  were  among  you,  I  would 
kiss  as  many  of  you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me,"  she 
paused,  lost  all  power  of  speech,  and  fell  stricken  with 
paralysis.  She  lingered  for  two  years  a  hopeless  invalid, 
two  years  which  "  partook,"  says  one  author,  "  of  all  that 
was  blameless  in  her  previous  life/' 

The  year  1741  was  memorable  in  the  great  theatre  of 
European  history  for  the  first  appearance,  as  a  leading  actor 
in  the  affairs  of  Europe,  of  the  great  Frederick  ;  in  the 
small  world  of  the  London  stage  this  year  was  no  less 
memorable  for  the  first  appearance  of  a  player  who  not 
only  in  his  own  country  was  to  reign  supreme  as  the 
greatest  actor  and  most  accomplished  manager  of  his  time, 
but  was  to  be  famous  and  admired  in  Europe  as  no  English 
actor  had  ever  been  before.  In  the  history  of  the  English 
drama  there  are  two  great  occasions  on  which  an  actor, 
hitherto  unknown  to  the  London  public,  won  an  immediate 
triumph  on  his  first  appearance  before  a  scanty  and 
sceptical  audience,  converted,  by  the  force  of  his  genius, 
cold  critics  into  astonished  admirers,  and  achieved  this 
signal  success  in  a  play  which  had  in  it  no  element  of 
novelty,  but  depended  almost  entirely  for  its  interest  that 
night  on  the  performance  of  the  particular  player. 
One  such  occasion  was  David  Garrick's  performance  of 
Richard  III.  at  the  Goodman's  Fields  Theatre,  on  October 
19th,  1741 ;  a  second  the  first  appearance  of  Edmund 
Kean  as  Shylock  at  Drury  Lane,  on  January  26th,  1814. 
Garrick  was  only  twenty-three  years  of  age  at  the  time  of 
his  first  appearance,  Kean  twenty-seven.  But  Kean  had 
been  on  the  stage  since  his  childhood ;  Garrick  had  only 
played  a  short  season  at  Ipswich  before  he  faced  the  ordeal 
at  Goodman's  Fields.  Garrick  was  an  actor  born,  if  ever 
there  was  one,  "  an  actor,  a  complete  actor,  and  nothing 
but  an  actor,"  says  Dibdin,  "  as  Pope,  during  the  whole 
course  of  his  life,  was  a  poet  and  nothing  but  a  poet." 

38 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

It  was  Pope  who,  on  seeing  Garrick  play,  declared  the 
young  man  never  had  his  equal  as  an  actor,  and  never 
would  have  a  rival.  Garrick  had  rivals,  plenty  of  them, 
during  his  career,  Quin,  Macklin,  Barry,  Mossop,  Henderson ; 
but  they  never  seriously  affected  his  position  ;  they  may 
have  played  some  parts  better  than  he,  but  they  could  not 
challenge  his  versatility,  the  fire  and  rapidity,  the  liveliness 
and  spirit  of  all  that  he  did  and  said  on  the  stage.  The 
moment  of  his  appearance  was  undoubtedly  propitious  for 
the  success  of  one  gifted  as  he  was  ;  there  is  something 
naive  in  the  reasons  assigned  by  the  writers  of  the  day  for 
the  peculiar  impression  made  by  the  young  actor  ;  they 
reveal  a  deplorable  condition  of  the  stage,  the  prevalence 
of  a  thoroughly  vicious  and  meaningless  style  of  acting. 
The  critics  are  astonished  that  Mr.  Garrick  should  identify 
himself  so  completely  with  his  part,  that  he  should  speak 
naturally  and  not  in  the  accustomed  "  demi-chant,"  his 
voice  neither  whining,  bellowing,  nor  grumbling :  he  neither 
struts  nor  minces,  is  neither  stiff  nor  slouching.  "  When 
others  are  on  the  stage  with  him,"  they  remark  with 
astonishment,  "he  is  attentive  to  whatever  is  spoke,  and 
never  drops  his  character  when  he  has  finished  his  speech, 
by  either  looking  contemptuously  on  an  inferior  performer, 
unnecessary  spitting,  or  suffering  his  eyes  to  wander  through 
the  whole  circle  of  spectators."  Here  was  indeed  a  Daniel 
come  to  judgment,  if  these  virtues  in  Garrick  attest  the 
vices  of  the  older  actors  ;  the  success  of  this  mercurial 
youth,  the  grandson,  be  it  remembered,  of  French  refugees, 
graceful,  easy,  vivacious  in  an  unwonted  degree,  is  less 
surprising  when  it  comes  as  a  relief  from  such  a  style  of 
acting  as  these  criticisms  suggest.  Macklin,  an  actor  of  far 
less  spirit,  had,  earlier  in  the  same  year,  made  a  profound 
impression  by  breaking  away  from  theatrical  convention  in 
his  performance  of  Shylock.  He,  as  I  described  in  my 
previous  lecture,  made  the  Jew  for  the  first  time  a  serious 
character.  Physically  a  man  of  strong  and  rugged  feature, 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

rough,  a  "  sour-faced  dog,"  according  to  Fielding,  Macklin 
imported  into  the  part  of  Shylock  an  element  of  the  strong 
and  terrible  that  has  never  been  equalled.  When  Sir 
Robert  Walpole  lamented  to  King  George  II.  that  there 
was  no  way  of  frightening  the  House  of  Commons,  the 
King,  who  had  the  night  before  visited  Drury  Lane,  and 
been  greatly  impressed  by  Macklin's  performance,  replied, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  sending  them  to  the  theatre  to  see 
that  Irishman  play  Shylock  ? "  But  Macklin  was  an  actor 
very  limited  in  his  capacity ;  hard,  without  charm,  ill- 
suited  to  any  but  unsympathetic  and  strongly  marked 
characters — a  vain,  quarrelsome,  and  disappointed  man, 
who  for  a  time  became  a  tavern-keeper  in  order  that  he 
might  deliver  lectures  to  his  customers,  after  they  had  dined, 
on  theatrical  history  and  the  art  of  acting ;  who  taught 
elocution,  and  taught  it  well,  and  at  eighty-two  wrote 
a  much-admired  comedy,  The  Man  of  the  World,  in  which 
he  himself  created  the  famous  part  of  Sir  Pertinax 
McSycophant.  Macklin  was  the  very  antithesis  to 
Garrick  ;  the  surly,  grudging  actor  of  ability,  opposed 
to  the  polite  and  insinuating  actor  of  genius. 

Of  this  genius  of  Gamck^s  how  difficult  it  is  to  form  for 
one's  self,  much  more  to  convey  to  others,  any  adequate 
notion  !  A  rather  short  figure,  but  perfectly  symmetrical 
and  graceful  in  all  its  movements,  dark,  restless  piercing 
eyes,  and  a  face  mobile  in  every  feature ;  these  would  seem 
to  have  been  the  physical  characteristics  of  the  player. 
Many  critics  dwell  on  the  completeness  of  his  physical 
equipment,  the  perfect  harmony  of  voice,  feature,  and 
figure,  that  made  them  unite  with  imperceptible  ease  to 
give  expression  to  the  actor's  thought.  Grimm,  the  French 
philosopher,  describes  with  enthusiasm  the  skill  and  con- 
viction with  which  Garrick  got  up  in  a  drawing-room  and, 
after  thrilling  his  hearers  by  his  delivery  of  the  "dagger" 
speech  in  Macbeth,  convulsed  them  with  laughter  by  his 
imitation  of  a  baker's  boy  who,  carrying  a  tray  of  cakes  on 

40 


IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

his  head,  lets  it  fall  into  the  mud  and  bursts  into  tears  at 
his  misfortune.  This  drawing-room  performance  epitomises 
the  whole  art  of  the  player  who  could  achieve  equal  success 
in  the  pathetic  tragedy  of  Lear  and  the  low  comedy  of 
Abel  Drugger.  And  this  success  was  gained  by  a  natural, 
unforced,  spontaneous  method  of  playing  that  astonished 
and  delighted  both  an  English  and  a  French  spectator,  for 
the  French  stage  in  those  days  suffered,  as  the  English,  from 
the  conventional  actor's  sing-song,  mechanical  habit  of 
ladling  out  his  lines.  In  all  probability  Lear  was  Garrick's 
greatest  part.  Here,  in  spite  of  his  comparative  shortness, 
of  the  unsuitability  of  his  attire — he  walked  with  a  crutch — 
his  delivery  of  the  curse  was  held  to  be  terrific,  his  madness 
simple  and  pathetic.  The  testimony  of  his  fellow-players 
is  perhaps  the  most  conclusive  of  his  extraordinary  powers. 
Mrs.  Siddons  was  terrified  by  the  power  of  his  eye  in 
Richard  III.  ;  Mrs.  Clive  swore  he  could  act  a  gridiron ; 
Bannister  said  that  in  Lear  his  very  stick  acted ;  Smith 
wrote,  "  I  never  can  speak  of  him  but  with  idolatry,  and 
have  ever  looked  upon  it  as  one  of  the  greatest  blessings 
of  my  life  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  Garrick."'  Garrick 
had  his  limitations ;  in  parts  such  as  Othello,  Faulconbridge, 
Hotspur,  where  physical  force  and  powerful  declamation 
were  demanded,  he  was  inadequate.  But  these  failures 
were,  as  a  contemporary  critic  observed,  "  spots  on  the  sun, 
only  visible  to  long-sighted  astronomers.""  As  an  actor 
from  the  age  of  twenty-three  till  he  retired  at  fifty-nine, 
Garrick  was  the  greatest  master  and  exponent  of  his  art. 

Ill 

WHEN  we  turn  to  the  other  side  of  his  career,  that  of  a 
manager  of  a  theatre,  for  thirty  years  joint-manager  of 
Drury  Lane,  the  story  wears  a  different  aspect.  In  spite 
of  his  triumphs  as  an  artist,  in  spite  of  the  success  of  his 
management,  the  wealth  and  prosperity  his  calling  brought 

41 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

him,  the  reader  of  Garrick's  biography  cannot  fail  to  be 
surprised,  astonished,  indignant  at  the  worries  and  mortifi- 
cations that  made  the  player's  life  as  a  theatrical  manager 
anxious  and  miserable.  Never  was  man  so  tried,  so  ill- 
treated,  so  badgered  and  worried  by  players,  authors, 
critics,  even  by  those  who  called  themselves  his  friends. 
His  peculiar,  his  phenomenal  success,  unequalled  by  that 
of  any  previous  actor,  roused  up  all  that  envy  and  un- 
charitableness  which  even  religion  has  sometimes  sanctioned 
when  it  has  been  employed  against  the  theatre.  Prejudice 
in  the  shape  of  Dr.  Johnson,  envy  in  the  person  of  Macklin, 
resentment  in  that  of  Churchill,  disappointment  in  that  of 
Smollett,  foppery  in  that  of  Fitzpatrick,  and  villainy  in 
that  of  Hinernan,  all  these  mischievous  qualities  were  at 
different  times  exerted  to  injure  or  distress  Garrick.  As 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  has  justly  observed,  one  of  the  most  curious 
features  about  Garriek's  relations  with  certain  of  his  con- 
temporaries is  the  fact  that  men  otherwise  reputed  decent 
and  honest  by  posterity,  should,  in  their  relations  with 
him,  descend  to  all  manner  of  meanness  and  dissimulation. 
This  is  indeed  a  curious  circumstance,  only  to  be  explained 
if  we  consider  the  very  peculiar  position  occupied  by  the 
successful  actor  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Courted  and 
caressed  by  the  greatest  in  the  land  on  one  side,  he  was 
every  now  and  then  rudely  reminded  that  he  belonged  to 
what  some  were  pleased  to  consider  an  inferior  and  despised 
calling,  and  was  held  fair  game  for  persecution  and  insult 
at  the  hands  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  When  a 
member  of  this  calling  was  seen  to  be  brilliantly  successful, 
popular  and  admired,  and,  above  all,  rich  and  prosperous, 
envy  filled  the  breasts  of  less  prosperous  persons  who  held 
themselves  to  be  vastly  superior  to  mere  players,  rage 
stirred  up  the  bile  of  incompetent  playwrights  whose 
wretched  dramas  the  player  had  dared  to  reject,  a  desire 
to  null  down  what  they  had  set  up  seized  hold  of  the  more 
malicious  part  of  their  audience ;  and  so  the  most  unworthy 

42 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

cause,  the  most  human  infirmity,  the  most  trivial  error, 
would  be  seized  upon  as  a  weapon  with  which  to  strike  at 
the  unprotected  player.  Fully  allowing  for  their  very 
venial  imperfections  of  character,  humanity  has  seldom 
displayed  itself  in  more  odious  colours  than  in  its  treat- 
ment of  David  Garrick  and  Mrs.  Siddons  at  certain  periods 
of  their  careers ;  success  was  dearly  bought  that  could 
bring  with  it  such  ignoble  treatment,  such  underserved 
humiliation. 

But  it  is  certain  literary  gentlemen  and  dramatists  who, 
above  all  others,  cut  such  sorry  figures  in  their  dealings 
with  Garrick — Smollett,  Ralph  the  historian,  Churchill, 
even  Goldsmith  and  Dr.  Johnson.  There  has  been  at  all 
times  a  certain  resentment  on  the  part  of  some  writers 
against  the  player,  against  his  immediate  fame,  the  reward 
he  reaps  in  his  own  lifetime,  the  adulation  he  receives  in 
his  own  person,  even  the  high  rate  at  which  he  is  considered 
to  be  paid  for  his  labour.  It  is  a  form  of  jealousy  that  has 
warped  many  otherwise  enlightened  minds ;  an  envy  that 
forgets  that  a  capacity  to  act  is  a  much  rarer  gift  than  a 
capacity  to  write,  that,  ephemeral  as  is  the  actor's  art,  it 
is  oy  way  of  compensation  more  vivid  in  its  appeal,  more 
immediate  in  its  effect,  than  any  other  form  of  art.  Bishop 
Tillotson  asked  Betterton  how  it  was  that  a  player  exercised 
a  vaster  power  over  human  sympathies  than  a  preacher. 
"  You  in  the  pulpit,"  was  Betterton ""s  answer,  "  only  tell 
a  story  ;  I  show  facts."  It  is  to  the  shower  of  facts  that 
the  public  heart  goes  out  in  a  way  that  distresses,  irritates, 
provokes  those  who  judge  the  worth  of  the  player  from 
the  impressive  nonsense  that  Dr.  Johnson  talked  about  his 
art,  or  the  unsympathetic  reflections  of  Charles  Lamb. 
Dr.  Johnson's  disparagement  of  play-acting  may  be  allowed 
to  pass ;  being  short-sighted  and  hard  of  hearing,  the 
doctor  could  hardly  have  been  in  a  position  to  appreciate 
the  full  significance  of  what  was  passing  on  a  stage  ;  but 
his  personal  treatment  of  Garrick  is  difficult  to  explain  on 

43 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

any  other  ground  than  that  of  rather  unworthy  jealousy. 
The  friendship  that  Garrick  had  showed  him  in  producing, 
to  the  best  of  his  ability,  the  sage's  unendurable  tragedy 
of  Irene,  was  poorly  repaid  by  the  ill-natured  picture 
Johnson  drew  of  his  friend  in  No.  200  of  the  Rambler,  a 
number  published  on  the  very  morning  that  Garrick,  always 
sensitive  and  nervous,  was  to  make  his  first  appearance  in 
a  new  part.  The  spiteful  depreciation  of  Garrick  in  the 
character  of  Prospero  is  in  no  worse  taste  than  the  self- 
glorification  of  Johnson  as  the  rugged  Asper.  That 
Johnson  should  have  been  a  little  envious  of  the  wealth 
that  was  being  accumulated  by  his  old  friend  is  natural ; 
they  had  started  life  together ;  Garrick,  the  more  energetic 
of  the  two,  had  outstripped  the  indolent  Johnson  in  the 
acquisition  of  the  good  things  of  this  world  ;  but,  as  Leslie 
Stephen  wrote,  "  a  grave  moral  philosopher  has  no  right 
to  look  askance  at  the  rewards  which  fashion  lavishes  upon 
men  of  lighter  and  less  lasting  merit  which  he  professes  to 
despise.1"  Johnson's  depreciation  of  acting  is  ignorant  and 
unfeeling — the  utterance  of  a  Philistine  ;  his  behaviour  to 
Garrick,  in  more  ways  than  one,  grudging  and  ungenerous ; 
he  was  not  philosopher  enough  to  accept  with  equanimity 
either  the  failure  of  his  own  tedious  play,  or  the  success  of 
his  old  schoolfellow.  Throughout  Johnson's  life,  by  the 
side  of  occasional  commendation  of  Garrick,  runs  a  constant 
stream  of  depreciation  of  the  man  and  unjust  ridicule  of 
his  art. 

Smollett's  conduct  towards  Garrick  is  a  good  specimen 
of  the  kind  of  treatment  the  actor  had  to  endure  from  even 
a  celebrated  man.  Garrick  had  politely,  and  with  the 
usual  protestations  of  regret,  rejected  a  bad  play  of 
Smollett's  called  The  Regicide.  In  Roderick  Random  the 
author  takes  his  revenge  by  drawing  a  portrait  of  Garrick 
under  the  significant  name  of  Mr.  Marmozet.  Thus  he 
writes :  "  It  is  not  for  the  qualities  of  his  heart  that 
this  little  parasite  is  invited  to  the  tables  of  dukes 

44 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

and  lords,  who  hire  cooks  for  his  entertainment ;  his 
avarice  they  see  not,  his  ingratitude  they  feel  not,  his 
hypocrisy  accommodates  itself  to  their  humours,  and  is 
of  consequence  pleasing;  but  he  is  chiefly  courted  for 
his  buffoonery,  and  will  be  admitted  into  the  choicest 
parties  for  his  talent  of  mimicking  Punch  and  his 
wife  Joan."" 

This  attack  appeared  in  1748 ;  but  in  1757  we  find 
Smollett,  in  his  History  of  England,  lauding  Garrick  to 
the  skies  for  his  genius  as  an  actor  and  the  service  which, 
as  a  manager,  he  had  done  the  English  stage.  What  has 
occurred  in  the  interval  to  bring  about  this  sudden  change 
from  venomous  attack  to  glowing  panegyric  ?  Why,  in 
this  same  year,  1757,  we  find  Garrick  producing  at  Drury 
Lane  a  patriotic  farce  of  Smollett's  called  Reprisal,  or  the 
Tars  of  Old  England,  and  paying  him  well  for  it.  From 
this  moment  Smollett  is  his  contrite  friend. 

Garrick's  biography  teems  with  unpleasant  experiences 
of  this  kind.  He  procures  from  Mr.  Pelham  the  minister, 
by  his  influence,  and  his  influence  alone,  a  pension  for 
Ralph  the  historian ;  but  because  he  will  not  perform 
Ralph's  stupid  plays,  all  gratitude  is  forgotten,  and  the 
author  attacks  the  actor  in  a  pamphlet  in  which  he  holds 
Garrick  responsible  for  the  present  deplorable  state  of  a 
theatre  that  rejects  the  masterpieces  of  Mr.  Ralph.  It 
should  be  added  that  a  play  of  Ralph's,  called  The 
Astrologer,  had  been  produced  in  1744,  and  on  the  second 
night  of  its  run  the  theatre  had  to  be  closed  for  want  of 
an  audience. 

Again,  Garrick  helps  with  money  one  Hiffernan,  an 
Irish  adventurer,  and  allows  a  play  of  his  to  be  put  on  at 
Drury  Lane ;  but  it  is  so  unsuccessful  that  it  convinces 
everybody  but  the  author  of  his  utter  incapacity  to  please 
an  audience.  Thereupon  Hiffernan  writes  and  threatens 
to  publish  what  Davies  described  as  a  "  bloody  libel "  on 
the  private  character  of  Garrick.  As  the  name  of  his  wife 

45 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

was  concerned  in  the  libel,  Garrick,  on  hearing  of  Hitter-nan's 
intention,  paid  the  blackmailer  to  suppress  it. 

Dodsley,  Hawkins,  Mrs.  Griffith,  and  many  another 
author  whose  merit  neither  Garrick  nor  anybody  else 
could  perceive,  vented  their  spleen  against  the  manager 
by  ascribing  to  all  manner  of  unworthy  motives  his  rejec- 
tion of  their  plays. 

But  the  case  of  the  poet  Churchill  is  perhaps  the  most 
interesting.  In  1761  this  very  irregular  clergyman  woke 
to  find  himself  famous  by  the  publication  of  his  poem  The 
Rosciad,  a  dramatic  review  in  satirical  verse  of  all  the 
leading  actors  of  the  day.  Small  wonder  that  its  publica- 
tion caused  a  panic  among  the  players,  for  some  of  them 
were  scourged  cruelly,  their  imperfections  ruthlessly  exposed 
in  cutting  verses.  Poor  Tom  Davies,  afterwards  Garrick's 
biographer,  was  driven  from  the  stage  by  the  lines  : 

Statesman  all  over,  in  plots  famous  grown, 
He  mouths  a  sentence  as  curs  mouth  a  bone. 

An  assiduous  but  mediocre  actor,  one  Havard,  is  thus 
described  : 

His  easy,  vacant  face  proclaim'd  a  heart 
Which  could  not  feel  emotions,  nor  impart. 

Yates,  an  admirable  comedian,  whose  only  infirmity  was 
an  imperfect  memory,  which  he  would  try  to  conceal  by 
repeating  his  words  over  again,  or  using  some  such 
expression  as  "  Hark  ye !  hark  ye ! "  until  he  could 
remember  what  came  next,  is  thus  hit  off: 

Lo  Yates  !   Without  the  least  finesse  of  art 
He  gets  applause. — I  wish  he'd  get  his  part  ! 
When  live  Impatience  is  in  full  career, 
How  vilely  "  Hark  ye  !  hark  ye  ! "  grates  the  ear  ! 
When  active  fancy  from  the  brain  is  sent, 
And  stands  on  tip-toe  for  some  wish'd  event, 
I  hate  those  careless  blunders,  which  recall 
Suspended  sense,  and  prove  it  fiction  all. 

46 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

Macklin  is  not  spared,  Macklin, 

Whose  acting's  hard,  affected,  and  constrain'd, 
Whose  features,  as  each  other  they  disdaiii'd, 
At  variance  set,  inflexible  and  coarse, 
Ne'er  know  the  workings  of  united  force. 

Mossop,  an  Irish  actor  of  power  and  vehemence,  but 
awkward  and  ungainly  in  his  movements,  who,  possessed 
of  a  strong  voice  and  unbounded  vanity,  was  considered, 
after  Garrick  and  Barry,  the  leading  tragedian  of  his  day, 
did  not  please  the  satirist ;  he  practised  what  was  known 
as  the  teapot  attitude — that  is,  he  sawed  the  air  too  much 
with  the  right  hand  : 

Mossop,  attach'd  to  military  plan, 

Still  kept  his  eye  fixed  on  his  right-hand  man  ; 

Whilst  the  mouth  measures  words  with  seeming  skill, 

The  right  hand  labours,  and  the  left  lies  still. 

For  he,  resolved  on  Scripture  grounds  to  go, 

What  the  right  doth,  the  left  hand  shall  not  know. 

Mossop's  emphasis  was  evidently  eccentric  : 

With  studied  impropriety  of  speech, 

He  soars  beyond  the  hackney  critic's  reach  ; 

To  epithets  allots  emphatic  state, 

Whilst  principals,  ungraced,  like  lackeys,  wait. 

Conjunction,  preposition,  adverb  join 

To  stamp  new  vigour  on  the  nervous  line  ; 

In  monosyllables  his  thunders  roll, 

He,  she,  it,  and,  we,  ye,  they,  fright  the  soul. 

Even  the  elegant  and  admired  Barry  did  not  escape 
censure.  As  Hamlet,  in  Churchill's  opinion,  he  anticipated 
too  prematurely  the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost : 

Some  dozen  lines  before  the  ghost  is  there, 

Behold  him  for  the  solemn  scene  prepare ; 

See  how  he  frames  his  eyes,  poises  each  limb, 

Puts  the  whole  body  into  proper  trim — 

From  whence  we  learn,  with  no  great  stretch  of  art, 

Five  lines  hence  comes  a  ghost,  and  ha !  a  start. 

47 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

Perhaps  the  mast  masterly  lines,  as  they  are  certainly  the 
most  severe  in  the  whole  poem,  are  those  describing  the 
imperfections  of  an  obscure  actor  named  Jackson,  after- 
wards lessee  of  the  Edinburgh  theatre. 

By  Nature  formed  in  her  perversest  mood, 

With  no  one  requisite  of  art  endued, 

Next  Jackson  came— Observe  that  settled  glare, 

Which  better  speaks  the  puppet  than  the  player ; 

List  to  that  voice — did  ever  Discord  hear 

Sounds  so  well  fitted  to  her  untuned  ear? 

When  to  enforce  some  very  tender  part 

The  right  hand  slips  by  instinct  to  the  heart, 

His  soul,  of  every  other  thought  bereft, 

Is  anxious  only  where  to  place  the  left. 

Awkward,  embarrass'd,  stiff,  without  the  skill 
Of  moving  gracefully,  or  standing  still, 
One  leg,  as  if  suspicious  of  his  brother, 
Desirous  seems  to  run  away  from  t'other. 

Fortunately  Churchill  was  a  burly  man — "the  clumsy 
curate  of  Clapham,"  Foote  called  him — or  some  of  the 
players  might  have  wreaked  physical  vengeance  on  their 
assailant.  As  it  was,  Davies,  who,  although  one  of  the 
sufferers,  gives  a  very  candid  account  of  the  affair,  describes 
the  censured  actors  as  running  about  like  "  stricken  deer." 
Garrick  found  himself  in  an  awkward  position.  He  alone 
of  all  the  players  was  wholly  praised  by  the  poet,  he  alone 
declared  worthy  to  fill  the  chair  once  occupied  by  Roscius. 
His  colleagues,  smarting  under  the  lash,  felt  a  natural 
resentment  at  his  immunity.  Garrick,  always  anxious  to 
please  all  parties,  affected  to  think  lightly  of  Churchill's 
eulogy,  and  ascribed  it  to  a  desire  on  Churchill's  part  to 
obtain  free  admission  to  Drury  Lane.  Garrick's  sentiments 
were  repeated  to  the  poet,  who  resented  them  bitterly  and 
determined  to  punish  such  ingratitude.  He  sat  down  and 
wrote  The  Apology,  which  was  intended  to  reply  to  the 
indignant  actors  and  literary  critics  of  The  Rosciad,  and  at 

48 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

the  same  time  drag  down  Garrick  from  his  former 
eminence.  Bitterly  he  poured  contempt  and  ridicule  on 
the  luckless  strolling  players  of  the  day,  from  whose 
necessitous  ranks  was  soon  to  emerge  the  genius  of  Mrs. 
Siddons ;  players  were  the  "  lowest  sons  of  earth " ;  and 
Garrick  "a  hero  from  4  puppet-show/1 

Forgetful  of  himself,  he  rears  his  head, 

And  scorns  the  dunghill,  where  he  first  was  bred. 

Let  the  vaiii  tyrant  sit  amidst  his  guards, 
His  puny  green-room  wits  and  venal  bards, 
Who  meanly  tremble  at  the  puppet's  frown, 
And  for  a  playhouse  freedom  lose  their  own. 

Ne'er  will  I  flatter,  cringe,  or  bend  the  knee 
To  those  who,  slaves  to  all,  are  slaves  to  me. 

Garrick,  conscious  that  by  his  own  indiscretion  he  had 
incurred  this  scathing  attack,  affected  to  take  it  in  good 
part  ;  he  wrote  to  a  friend  of  Churchill  expressing  his 
admiration  of  the  poem  :  "  I  appear,""  he  wrote,  "  as  I  once 
saw  a  poor  soldier  on  the  parade,  who  was  acting  a 
pleasantry  of  countenance,  while  his  back  was  most 
woefully  striped  with  the  cat-o'-nine-tails."  From  this 
moment  Churchill  and  Garrick  became  friends.  There  is  a 
strange  irony  in  the  poet  who  could  pour  such  scorn  upon 
the  straits  and  distresses  of  the  poor  strolling  actor,  writing, 
when  profligacy  and  extravagance  had  played  havoc  with 
his  fortune,  to  beg  a  loan  from  the  player,  Garrick  : 

"  Half  drunk,  half  mad,  and  quite  stripped  of  all  my 
money,  I  should  be  much  obliged  if  you  would  enclose  and 
send  by  the  bearer  five  pieces,  by  way  of  adding  to  the 
favours  already  received  by  yours  sincerely, 

"  CHARLES  CHURCHILL." 

With  his  usual  generosity,  Garrick  repeatedly  assisted 
the  unfortunate  poet,  up  to  the  hour  of  his  untimely  death, 
in  1764,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-three. 

49  E 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

Of  a  very  different  type  from  Churchill  was  another  of 
Garrick's  tormentors,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick.  His  case  affords 
a  striking  instance  of  the  power  that  lay  in  the  hands 
of  any  unworthy  creature  to  use,  or  abuse,  his  opportunity 
as  one  of  the  public  to  insult  and  degrade  an  actor  against 
whom  he  cherished  resentment.  Fitzpatrick  was  an 
impudent  and  effeminate  Irish  fop,  whose  mincing  and 
wriggling  manners  were  in  unpleasant  contrast  to  his 
large  and  athletic  build.  Originally  befriended  and 
encouraged  by  Garrick,  he  came  to  think  himself  a  critic,  and 
in  order  to  better  display  his  critical  acumen  and  serve  the 
interests  of  his  fellow-countryman,  the  tragedian  Mossop, 
he  soon  turned  on  Garrick  and  attacked  his  acting.  Not 
content  with  writing  his  depreciation,  he  would  go  to  the 
pit  of  Drury  Lane  on  the  nights  Garrick  was  playing ;  if 
it  were  a  tragedy,  he  and  his  friends  would  talk  and  laugh 
and  utter  scornful  sounds  ;  if  it  were  a  comedy,  they  would 
sit  with  grave  and  immovable  features,  while  the  rest  of 
the  audience  were  laughing  heartily.  Even  off  the  stage 
he  pursued  Garrick  with  his  offensive  conduct ;  at  the 
Shakespeare  Club,  to  which  they  both  belonged,  he  grossly 
insulted  the  great  actor.  Garrick  was  moved  to  retort ; 
he  published  a  passable  satire  in  verse,  The  Fribbkiiad,  in 
which  Fitzpatrick  was  ridiculed  as  chief  of  the  "  fribble " 
tribe  of  inane  and  insignificant  dandies.  Churchill,  in  The 
Rosciad,  took  up  the  parable,  and  drew  an  awful  picture 
of  the  effeminate  creature  : 

Nor  male,  nor  female ;  neither  and  yet  both  ; 
Of  neuter  gender,  though  of  Irish  growth ; 
A  six-foot  suckling,  mincing  in  its  gait ; 
Affected,  peevish,  prim  and  delicate ; 
Fearful  it  seem'd,  though  of  athletic  make, 
Lest  brutal  breezes  should  too  roughly  shake 
Its  tender  form,  and  savage  motion  spread, 
O'er  its  pale  cheeks,  the  horrid  manly  red. 

No  one  will  deny  that  Fitzpatrick  had  brought  on  him- 
self this  chastisement,  which  was  well  within  the  rules 

50 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

of  fair  play,  as  literary  controversy  was  conducted  in  these 
days.  But  an  actor  who  indulged  in  encounters  of  this 
kind  had  a  vulnerable  spot  in  his  armour  at  which  a  coward 
would  not  hesitate  to  strike;  he  exposed  himself,  whenever  he 
appeared  on  the  public  stage,  to  any  mean  or  unscrupulous 
attack  his  adversary  might  organise  against  him.  Fitzpatrick 
found  the  desired  opportunity  when  Garrick,  as  manager 
of  Drury  Lane,  decided  to  abolish  the  rule  that  allowed 
persons  to  come  into  the  theatre  at  half-price  after  the 
third  act  of  a  play.  The  measure  was,  of  course,  unpopular 
with  a  large  section  of  playgoers  ;  to  these  Fitzpatrick 
appealed  and,  under  the  cloak  of  public-spirited  indigna- 
tion, determined  to  gratify  his  private  spite.  He  organised 
a  riot.  On  the  night  of  January  25th,  1762,  the  audience, 
led  by  Fitzpatrick,  who  addressed  them  in  a  speech  from 
the  front  of  the  boxes,  refused  Garrick  a  hearing,  tore  up 
the  benches,  destroyed  the  furniture,  and  were  only  pre- 
vented from  setting  fire  to  the  theatre  by  the  presence 
of  mind  of  Moody,  an  Irish  player,  who  stopped  a  ruffian 
in  the  act  of  setting  fire  to  the  scenery.  Difficult  as  it  is  to 
believe,  Moody^s  conduct  on  this  occasion  was  considered 
most  impudent,  and  when,  the  following  night,  he  tried  to 
apologise  to  the  audience  in  a  jocular  way  by  saying  he  was 
sorry  ;'  he  had  displeased  them  by  saving  their  lives,11  they 
shouted  to  him  to  go  on  his  knees  and  ask  pardon  for  his 
effrontery.  "  I  will  not,  by  heaven  ! "  answered  the  resolute 
Irishman,  and  walked  off  the  stage.  Fitzpatrick  and  his 
friends  declared  Moody  should  never  act  again  in  London  ; 
but  Moody,  having  no  fear,  went  to  see  Fitzpatrick,  told 
him  he  intended  to  fight  him,  and  by  his  firmness  compelled 
the  dandy  to  put  a  stop  to  his  persecution. 

It  was  this  miserable  incident,  combined  with  other  causes 
of  mortification  and  disappointment,  that  impelled  Garrick 
to  leave  England  in  1763  and  travel  abroad  for  two  years. 
It  was  a  wise  step  ;  not  only  did  he  meet  with  a  reception  on 
the  Continent  such  as  no  English  actor  before  or  since  has 

51 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

experienced,  but  when  he  returned  in  1765  to  Drury  Lane, 
he  found  a  public  ready  to  take  him  once  more  to  their 
hearts  ;  and  until  his  retirement  in  1776  he  had  no  cause 
to  complain  of  their  want  of  appreciation  or  respect.     But 
ignoble  wretches  to  the  last  sought  to  get  money  from 
Garrick  by  disturbing  his  peace  of  mind  ;  by  threatening 
him  with  the  publication  of  gross  libels,  and  hinting  that 
it  was  in  his  power  to  mitigate  their  severity  by  a  timely 
disbursement  of  ready  money.     Williams,  a  Welsh  dis- 
senting  minister,   wrote   a   scathing   personal    attack    on 
Garrick  as  actor  and  manager,  but  before  publishing  it,  he 
writes  himself  to  Garrick,  warning  him  that  a  pamphlet, 
eloquently  written  by  a  young  man  of  genius,  and  calculated 
to  do  him  irreparable  mischief,  is  about  to  be  issued,  unless 
Mr.  Garrick  "  take  some  method  to  undeceive  the  young 
man."     During  his  last  illness  an  anonymous  writer,  signing 
himself  "  Curtius,"   threatened   the   publication   of  three 
letters  in  which  Garrick  was  to  be  humbled  to  the  dust  by 
the   public  exposure  of  his  true   character,  "  But,"  adds 
"  Curtius,"  in  a  letter  privately  sent  to  Garrick,  "  if,  in  the 
swelling   heap  of  charges  they  contain,  you  can   obviate 
some,  they  shall  be  expunged."     This  "  Curtius "  was  a 
dangerous   assailant,    no   other    than    the    Rev.    William 
Jackson,   a   disreputable    Anglican    clergyman,    who    had 
killed  by  a  hideous  slander  Foote,  the  actor.     Foote  had 
caricatured  Williams  on  the  stage  as  "  Dr.   Viper,"  and 
Williams  revenged  himself  by  suborning  Footers  coachman 
to  bring  an   infamous   charge  against  his   master.     The 
misery  of  it  had  brought  about  Foote's  death  in  1777. 
Now,  two  years  later,  this  time  without  any  provocation, 
the  Rev.  William  Jackson,  alias  Curtius,  employs  his  foul 
arts  against  the  dying  Garrick.     But  death  outstripped  his 
villainous  purposes,  and  spared  Garrick  the  humiliation  of 
facing  this  clerical  ruffian.     Sixteen  years  after  Garrick's 
death,  Jackson  committed  suicide  in  the  dock  in  Dublin, 
when  he  was  about  to  be  condemned  to  death  as  a  French 

52 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

spy.  It  is  shocking  to  think  that  a  man  of  Garrick's 
refinement  and  high  character  should  have  been  brought 
into  contact  with  such  men  as  Williams  and  Jackson. 
Here  we  have  unabashed  blackmailing,  not  by  ordinary 
criminals,  but  by  reverend  persons  of  education  and 
position,  who  should  have  known  better  than  to  approach 
even  a  player  in  so  vile  a  habit. 

With  the  members  of  his  own  calling  Garrick  paid  the 
penalty  of  extraordinary  success  by  encountering  jealousy 
and  hostility  open  and  avowed,  treacherous  and-  clandes- 
tine ;  but  it  never  amounted  to  much,  nor  very  seriously 
disturbed  his  peace  of  mind,  except  in  one  instance, 
that  of  Samuel  Foote.  This  ill-natured  humorist  was 
a  perpetual  thorn  in  the  side  of  Garrick,  as  he  was  in 
those  of  a  great  number  of  persons.  To  Foote  nothing 
was  sacred  from  the  exercise  of  his  unfeeling  wit ;  a  heart- 
less and  cowardly  buffoon,  nothing  but  the  threat  of 
physical  chastisement  could  restrain  his  malice.  Going 
out  to  dinner  immediately  after  his  wife's  death,  he  enter- 
tained the  table  by  an  extravagantly  comic  assumption  of 
grief.  "By  Footers  buffoonery  and  broad-faced  merri- 
ment," said  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  "private  friendship, 
public  decency,  and  everything  estimable  among  men, 
were  trod  underfoot."" 

His  strokes  of  humour  and  his  bursts  of  sport, 
says  Churchill, 

Are  all  contained  in  this  one  word,  distort. 
Doth  a  man  stutter,  look  asquint,  or  halt? 
Mimics  draw  humour  out  of  nature's  fault ; 
With  personal  defects  their  mirth  adorn, 
And  hang  misfortune  out  to  public  scorn. 

Garrick  was  not  likely  to  escape  from  the  malicious 
ridicule  of  a  jester  who  said  of  audiences  in  general : 
"  Who  will  give  money  to  be  told  Mr.  Such-a-one  is 
wiser  and  better  than  himself?  Demolish  a  conspicuous 

53 


character,  and  sink  him  below  our  level ;  then  we  are 
pleased,  then  we  chuckle  and  grin,  and  toss  the  half-crown 
on  the  counter.1"  Foote,  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
invited  the  ready  half-crowns  of  his  patrons  by  performing 
pieces  of  his  own  composition,  the  characters  in  which 
were  thinly  disguised  burlesques  of  well-known  persons. 
Gratitude  was  a  word  unknown  in  the  mimic's  vocabulary  ; 
he  might  owe  Garrick  some  hundreds  of  pounds ;  borrow 
his  scenery,  ask  favours  of  him,  place  himself  under  all 
manner  of  obligations  to  the  other's  good  nature ;  none 
of  these  considerations  could  deter  him  from  wounding  his 
benefactor's  susceptibilities  by  holding  him  up  to  ridicule 
on  the  stage,  from  scoffing  behind  his  back  at  his  so-called 
stinginess,  pouring  contempt  on  his  acting,  and  vilifying 
his  character.  Yet  in  the  hour  of  his  awful  misfortune, 
when  he  had  to  defend  himself  against  the  vilest  slander, 
Foote  found  no  more  loyal  friend,  no  more  faithful  sup- 
porter, than  David  Garrick. 

In  considering  the  controversies,  disputes,  and  misunder- 
standings that  affected  the  relations  of  Garrick  with  certain 
of  his  contemporaries,  it  would  be  unfair  to  assert  that  in 
many  instances  Garrick's  own  faults  of  character  had  not 
contributed  to  exasperate  his  opponents,  encourage  their 
attacks,  provoke  their  jealousy.  "  Of  inordinate  vanity," 
says  one  writer  in  describing  Garrick,  "  at  once  the  most 
courteous,  genial,  sore,  and  sensitive  of  men ;  full  of 
kindliness,  yet  ever  quarrelling ;  scheming  for  applause, 
even  in  the  society  of  his  most  intimate  friends ;  a  clever 
writer,  a  wit,  and  a  friend  of  wits,  yet  capable  of  mutilat- 
ing Hamlet  and  degrading  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
into  a  ballet-opera."  This  is  no  very  unjust  account  of 
the  contradictions  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  character 
of  this  remarkable  man.  Vain — not  perhaps  inordinately 
vain — Garrick  certainly  was,  but  not  half  so  vain  as,  in 
the  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson,  he  had  a  right  to  be;  the 
sage  declared  he  would  have  had  a  couple  of  fellows  with 

54 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

long  poles  walking  before  him  to  knock  everybody  down  if 
he  had  enjoyed  as  much  applause  and  adulation  as  Garrick. 
It  is  true  that  Garrick  was  too  sensitive  to  criticism  and 
attack ;  undoubtedly  it  was  this  extreme  sensitiveness,  his 
eagerness  to  anticipate,  if  he  could,  unfavourable  criti- 
cism, even  by  writing  it  himself,  that  provoked  envious, 
malicious,  or  designing  persons  to  torment  him,  to  see  him 
writhe  under  their  ill-treatment,  in  some  cases  to  extract 
money  from  him  as  the  price  of  silence.  Nor  was  Garrick 
sufficiently  straightforward  and  courageous  in  facing  his 
enemies;  he  preferred  to  conciliate,  to  employ  what  he  called 
"  finesse "  with  men  whose  ingratitude  and  baseness  one 
could  have  wished  he  had  treated  with  the  scorn  and 
indignation  they  deserved ;  his  diplomacy,  on  which  he 
prided  himself,  only  exasperated  those  on  whom  he  prac- 
tised it.  His  very  good  nature,  that  made  it  so  difficult 
for  him  to  say  "  No,"  led  him  to  dodge  and  procrastinate, 
until  those  he  had  not  the  determination  to  refuse  were 
worn  out  and  irritated.  Garrick  loved  the  notice  of  the 
great,  the  society  of  persons  of  rank.  So  did  Dr.  Johnson  ; 
but  he  had  the  courage  to  say  so,  whereas  Garrick,  in  his 
heart  delighted,  would  affect  to  be  unconcerned  at  a  royal 
command  or  a  nobleman's  invitation.  Like  many  great  men, 
he  liked  to  be  surrounded  by  flatterers  and  dependants, 
and  as  such  persons  are  not  to  be  found  among  men  of 
superior  worth,  Garrick  was  reproached  for  encouraging 
the  sycophancy  of  such  an  ignoble  crew  as  the  Kenricks 
and  Kellys  and  Woodfalls. 

These  were  the  great  actor's  failings.  I  have  enumerated 
them  because,  without  them,  it  is  impossible  to  do  justice 
to  Garrick  or  his  contemporaries ;  but  they  were  failings 
in  every  sense  venial  and  superficial,  the  natural  imperfec- 
tions of  a  human  character.  Had  Garrick  not  been  an 
extraordinarily  successful  player,  an  object  of  envy  and 
resentment  to  bigoted  and  prejudiced  minds,  they  would 
not  have  been  so  severely  visited  on  him  in  his  lifetime, 

55 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

and  we  should  have  heard  less  about  them  after  his  death. 
"  In  the  height  of  the  public  admiration  for  you,"  wrote 
Mrs.  Clive,  who  had  acted  and  quarrelled  with  Garrick 
all  her  life,  "  when  you  were  never  mentioned  with  any 
other  appellation  but  the  Garrick,  the  charming  man,  the 
fine  fellow,  the  delightful  creature,  both  by  men  and 
ladies ;  when  they  were  admiring  everything  you  did  and 
everything  you  scribbled — at  this  time  I  was  a  living 
witness  that  they  did  not  know,  nor  could  they  be  sensible, 
of  half  your  perfections."  If  Garrick  were  vain,  ubiquitous, 
affected,  economical  in  trifles,  he  was  at  heart  good- 
natured,  forgiving,  and  noble  in  his  generosity.  He  gave 
with  a  lavish  hand  to  those  needy  and  distressed ;  they 
repaid  him  by  treachery  and  ingratitude ;  he  overlooked 
their  trespass  and  gave  again.  No  man  better  deserved 
his  good  fortune ;  no  man  less  deserved  the  detraction,  the 
envy,  the  malice  that  poisoned  the  cup  of  his  happiness. 
He  raised  the  dignity  of  the  player,  he  improved  the  con- 
dition of  the  theatre.  He  was  a  generous  and  charitable 
man  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  words,  a  devoted  husband, 
an  amiable  and  accomplished  gentleman,  in  whom  the 
vanity,  the  sensitiveness,  the  restlessness  of  the  artist, 
obscured  only  from  an  unfriendly  eye  a  heart  that  pitied 
and  forgave,  a  hand  ever  ready  to  succour  the  afflicted,  a 
gentle  and  a  Christian  spirit.  Davies,  who  knew  Garrick 
well,  no  fulsome  eulogist,  closes  his  life  of  the  great  actor 
with  these  words :  "  No  man  of  his  profession  had  ever 
been  so  much  the  object  of  admiration ;  few  men  were 
ever  more  beloved ;  nor  was  any  man  better  formed  to 
adorn  society,  or  more  sincerely  disposed  and  qualified  to 
serve  mankind,  than  David  Garrick." 

Of  the  actors  who  Avere  Garrick^s  contemporaries,  only 
one  was  ever  seriously  his  rival,  and  that  was  Spranger 
Barry.  Originally  a  Dublin  silversmith,  his  failure  in 
business  obliged  him  to  turn  to  some  other  means  of 
earning  a  living.  His  graceful  figure,  his  handsome  face, 

56 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

his  musical  voice,  tempted  him  to  try  his  fortunes  on  the 
stage.  He  first  appeared  at  the  Dublin  theatre,  then 
the  nursery  of  many  famous  players  :  Quin,  Barry,  Mossop, 
Sheridan,  Macklin,  Mrs.  Woffington,  Mrs.  Clive,  and 
Mrs.  Bellamy,  all  hailed  from  Ireland.  It  was  at  Garrick's 
suggestion  that  Barry  came  to  London.  His  success  was 
immediate.  Above  all,  he  charmed  the  ladies  "  by  the 
soft  melody  of  his  love  complaints  and  the  noble  ardour 
of  his  courtship."  He  had  not  Garrick's  fire  or  versatility  ; 
he  had  no  gift  for  comedy ;  but  in  such  parts  as  Othello, 
Romeo,  and  Alexander  the  Great,  his  superior  physique, 
his  stately  grace,  his  charming  pathos,  gave  him  victory. 
Nothing  can  give  us  a  better  idea  of  the  difference  between 
the  two  players  than  a  lady's  criticism  of  their  respective 
performances  of  Romeo.  "  Had  I  been  Juliet,"  she  said, 
"  to  Garrick's  Romeo,  so  ardent  and  impassioned  was  he, 
I  should  have  expected  that  he  would  come  up  to  me  in 
tije  balcony ;  but  had  I  been  Juliet  to  Barry's  Romeo, 
so  tender,  so  eloquent,  and  so  seductive  was  he,  I  should 
certainly  have  gone  down  to  him."  It  is  no  slight  proof 
of  Garrick's  freedom  from  jealousy  that  he  was  always 
Barry's  friend,  and  Barry  dearly  valued  his  friendship. 
After  a  chequered  career — he  lost  a  fortune  in  managing 
one  of  the  Dublin  theatres — Barry  died  the  year  after 
Garrick's  retirement,  a  martyr  to  gout.  Two  months  later 
his  wife,  an  accomplished  actress,  made  her  re-appearance 
at  Covent  Garden  in  her  great  part  of  Lady  Randolph  in 
Doiiglcu.  According  to  the  curious  custom  of  the  day, 
she  spoke  a  prologue,  in  which  she  described  her  lone 
condition  to  her  audience : 

Of  the  lov'd  pilot  of  my  life  bereft, 
Save  your  protection,  not  a  hope  is  left. 

The  tree  cut  down  on  which  she  clung  and  grew, 
Behold,  the  propless  woodbine  clings  to  you. 

57 


THE   ENGLISH  STAGE 

With  the  death  of  Barry  in  1777,  the  retirement  of 
Garrick  the  year  before,  Mrs.  Gibber  and  Mrs.  Woffington 
dead,  Mrs.  Pritchard  and  Mrs.  Clive  in  retirement,  a 
generation  of  great  players  had  passed  from  the  stage. 
But  in  1782  the  glory  of  the  theatre  was  revived  by  the 
first  appearance  of  Mrs.  Siddons  as  Isabella  in  The  Fatal 
Marriage  at  Drury  Lane.  It  was  not  her  first  appearance 
in  London.  Garrick  had  engaged  her  seven  years  before  ; 
but  she  had  not  been  cast  for  parts  that  suited  her ;  her 
genius  was  yet  immature,  and  Garrick  had  failed  to 
detect  even  the  promise  of  it.  Now  she  astonished  and 
electrified  her  audience  by  the  power  of  her  declamation, 
the  intensity  of  her  passion.  In  1785  she  reached  the 
zenith  of  her  greatness  by  her  performance  of  Lady 
Macbeth.  The  year  before,  old  Mrs.  Clive,  then  over 
seventy  years  of  age,  had  come  up  from  her  retirement 
at  Twickenham  to  see  the  new  actress  who  had  so  taken 
the  town  by  storm.  She  was  eagerly  asked  what  she 
thought  of  her ;  her  reply  is  a  truly  delightful  criticism  : 
"Think  ! "  she  said,  "why,  I  think  it's  all  truth  and  day- 
light ! "  The  year  after  Mrs.  Siddons"1  appearance  as 
Isabella,  her  brother,  John  Kemble,  had  made  a  distinct 
success  at  Drury  Lane  as  Hamlet ;  it  was  the  beginning  of 
a  career  honourable  and  distinguished.  The  Kembles  were 
the  first  great  players  who  had  sprung  from  the  itinerant 
ranks  of  their  calling.  Their  father,  Roger,  had  been  a 
strolling  player,  and  many  were  the  hardships  that  John 
Kemble  and  his  brother  Stephen  would  relate  of  their  own 
strolling  days.  The  adversity  of  their  early  lives  had  given 
the  Kembles — John  and  Mrs.  Siddons — strong  and  resolute 
characters ;  they  were  honourable,  upright,  worthy  people, 
with  all  their  rather  Crummies-like  solemnity,  players  who 
supported  the  dignity  and  independence  of  their  calling. 
Their  history  lies  to  a  great  extent  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  school  of  acting  they  introduced  had  neither 
the  fire  and  vivacity  of  that  of  Garrick,  nor  the  fierceness 

58 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

and  intensity  of  that  of  Kean  and  George  Frederick  Cooke. 
With  some  allowance  for  the  prejudice  of  an  actress  whom 
Mrs.  Siddons  eclipsed,  Mrs.  Barry's  account  of  the  Kemble 
style  of  acting  has  some  truth  in  it.  "The  Garrick  school," 
she  said,  "  was  all  rapidity  and  passion ;  while  the  Kemble 
school  is  so  full  of  paw  and  pause,  that,  at  first,  the  per- 
formers, thinking  their  new  competitors  had  either  lost 
their  cues  or  forgotten  their  parts,  used  frequently  to 
prompt  them."  That  solemn  pause,  which  in  theatrical 
history  has  become  associated  with  the  name  of  Macready, 
would  seem  to  have  had  its  origin  with  the  Kembles.  But 
the  genius  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  the  undoubted  power  of  John 
Kemble  in  all  that  was  eloquent  and  dignified  in  tragedy, 
these  must  not  be  confounded  with,  or  judged  by,  the 
mannerisms  which  their  admirers  or  pupils  copied  and 
converted  into  a  habit  of  acting  that  had  all  the  faults 
but  none  of  the  genius  of  the  originals.  No  actor  or 
actress  has  ever  left  so  unmistakable  an  impress  on  those 
who  saw  them,  won  such  a  unanimous  tribute  of  praise 
from  the  most  diverse  critics  as  Mrs.  Siddons.  In  tragedy 
she  is  supreme  in  the  history  of  our  English  theatre.  "  Of 
actors,"  said  Lord  Byron,  "  Cooke  was  the  most  natural, 
Kemble  the  most  supernatural,  Kean  the  medium  between 
the  two.  But  Mrs.  Siddons  was  worth  them  all  put 
together."  We  are  apt  to  think  to-day  that  there  was 
something  mechanical,  stagey,  rather  unnatural,  about  even 
Mrs.  Siddons,  with  all  her  greatness.  Those  who  would 
correct  such  an  impression  may  refer  to  Charles  Young, 
the  actor's,  account  of  her  entrance  as  Volumnia  in 
Coriolanus,  in  the  scene  of  her  son's  triumph.  Most 
actresses  had  been  content  to  follow  the  procession  with 
the  conventional  stately  steps  of  the  tragedy  queen ;  but 
Mrs.  Siddons  recollected  she  was  the  proud  mother  of  a 
proud  son :  "  Instead  of  dropping  each  foot  at  equi-distance 
in  cadence  subservient  to  the  orchestra,  deaf  to  the  guidance 
of  her  woman's  ear,  with  head  erect  and  hands  pressed 

59 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

firmly  to  her  bosom,  as  if  to  repress  by  manual  force  its 
triumphant  swellings,  she  towered  above  all  around  her,  and 
almost  reeled  across  the  stage,  her  very  soul,  as  it  were, 
dilating  and  rioting  in  its  exultations,  until  her  action  lost 
all  grace  and  yet  became  so  true  to  nature,  so  picturesque, 
and  so  descriptive,  that  pit  and  gallery  sprang  to  their 
feet,  electrified  by  the  transcendent  execution  of  the  con- 
ception." Few  written  criticisms  can  give  any  real  picture 
of  a  great  piece  of  acting ;  this  one  comes  very  near  to  it. 
We  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  power  and  originality,  the 
"truth  and  daylight,""  as  Mrs.  Clive  called  it,  of  Mrs. 
Siddons1  acting ;  we  see  her  doing  a  daring  and  difficult 
thing  that  might  well  have  been  absurd  or  vulgar  but  for 
the  genius  of  the  artist. 

Mi's.  Siddons,  though  a  woman,  could  not  escape  the 
penalty  of  success  in  those  days,  any  more  than  Garrick. 
No  sooner  had  she  won  her  great  triumph  in  London  than 
scurrilous  attacks  were  made  on  her  private  character  and 
that  of  her  brother.  Her  morality  being  unassailable, 
Mrs.  Siddons  was  attacked  and  caricatured  as  an  ungener- 
ous, grasping  woman,  whose  only  desire  as  an  artist  was  to 
get  money,  who  was  deaf  to  all  prayers  of  suffering  or 
distress,  who  would  even  suffer  her  relatives  to  starve  or 
subsist  on  public  charity,  sooner  than  give  them  a  shilling 
of  her  great  earnings.  She  and  her  brother  were  falsely 
accused  of  neglecting  their  aged  father,  and  refusing  assist- 
ance to  their  most  eccentric  sister,  Mrs.  Curtis.  Mrs. 
Siddons  may  not  have  been  as  liberal  with  her  money  as 
some  of  her  fellow-artists,  but  we  must  always  remember 
that  she  was  the  mother  of  five  children  and  supported  her 
husband.  Even  if  there  had  been  any  truth  in  the  charges 
of  meanness  levelled  against  her,  they  were  no  concern  of 
the  public ;  but  that  is  a  later  view.  At  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  in  the  very  zenith  of  her  success,  such 
libellous  statements  were  sufficient  to  persuade  an  audience 
at  Drury  Lane  theatre  to  greet  Mrs.  Siddons  with  yells 

60 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

and  hoots  of  disapprobation,  and  compel  her  to  address 
them  in  her  own  defence.  The  actor  was  just  as  exposed  at 
the  end  of  the  century  as  in  the  time  of  Garrick  to  the 
slander  of  some  malicious  penman,  or  the  brutality  of  an 
audience.  But  John  Kemble  was  manfully  indifferent  to 
such  things,  far  more  resolute  in  withstanding  them  than 
David  Garrick.  Kemble,  with  all  his  affectation  of  Roman 
dignity  and  solemn  speech,  had  a  nice  sense  of  humour 
and  a  stout  heart.  It  was  a  happy  omen  for  the  theatre 
when,  towards  the  close  of  the  century,  John  Kemble 
became  manager  of  Drury  Lane.  Though  he  could  not 
succeed  in  averting  the  ruin  brought  about  by  Sheridan's 
disreputable  administration,  he  preserved  the  stage  itself 
from  many  of  the  ill  effects  of  the  patentee's  unscrupulous 
extravagance.  In  1802,  weary  of  Sheridan,  he  took  a  share 
in  the  management  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  and 
throughout  the  fifteen  years  that  he  governed  its  affairs, 
upheld  those  high  traditions  of  theatrical  administration, 
the  legacy  of  Colley  Gibber  and  David  Garrick. 

The  traditions  handed  down  to  their  successors  by  these 
eighteenth-century  actors  are  worthy  of  the  beautiful  art 
they  so  faithfully  pursued.  The  pure  art  of  acting, 
unassisted  by  the  collaboration  of  other  arts,  received 
in  them  its  highest  expression.  The  intention  of  all  the 
arts,  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds — and  he  includes  the  art 
of  the  actor  among  them — is  to  supply  the  natural  imper- 
fection of  things ;  they  are  addressed  not  to  the  gross 
senses,  but  to  the  desires  of  the  mind,  to  that  spark  of 
divinity  which  we  have  within,  impatient  of  being  circum- 
scribed and  pent  up  by  the  world  that  is  about  us  ;  painting 
and  acting  are  as  far  removed  from  the  vulgar  idea  of 
imitation  as  the  refined  civilised  state  in  which  we  live 
is  removed  from  a  gross  state  of  nature.  I  believe  that 
the  conditions  of  the  eighteenth-century  theatre  were 
peculiarly  favourable  to  the  realisation  by  the  actor  of 
these,  the  highest  possibilities  of  his  art,  that  he  had  to 

61 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE 

make  a  single,  an  individual  appeal  to  the  imagination, 
the  emotion  of  his  audience  which  taxed  to  the  full  all 
the  resources  of  art,  of  temperament,  of  intelligence,  that 
he  possessed. 

And  to  follow  his  art  in  this  eighteenth  century,  the 
would-be  player  had  to  be  prepared  to  face  difficulties  and 
disadvantages  which  to-day  have  disappeared.  I  have  in 
these  lectures  been  obliged  to  confine  myself  to  the  London 
stage ;  we  have  seen  that  there  the  actor  had  to  endure 
much  that  was  odious,  that  he  was  exposed  on  occasions  to 
treatment  which  to-day  is  regarded  by  all  sensible  people 
as  a  relic  of  Puritan  barbarism.  But  the  ambitious  actor 
who  began  his  career  as  a  strolling  player  had  to  endure, 
if  we  may  accept  the  reminiscences  of  John  Kemble,  such 
humiliation,  ignominy,  actual  suffering,  as  only  a  great 
devotion  to  his  work  could  have  determined  a  man  of 
ordinary  sensitiveness  to  go  through.  Towards  the  end 
of  the  century,  however,  a  great  improvement  in  these 
conditions  took  place.  Instead  of  booths  and  barns,  the 
provincial  actor  began  to  find  in  the  more  considerable 
towns  theatres  ready  to  receive  him.  Within  a  period 
of  ten  years,  theatres  were  patented  at  Edinburgh,  Bath, 
Norwich,  York,  Hull,  Liverpool,  Manchester,  Chester,  and 
Bristol,  and  at  the  end  of  the  century  we  find  the  London 
"  stars,"  Kemble,  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  others,  for  the  first 
time  making  tours  to  the  chief  provincial  centres.  The 
theatre  was  becoming  more  and  more  a  part  of  the  life  of 
the  people,  and,  unprotected,  unassisted  by  the  State,  more 
and  more  at  the  mercy  of  popular  taste.  No  art  that  is 
left  to  the  mercy  of  popular  taste,  that  has  to  fight  for  its 
existence,  can  escape  some  measure  of  corruption.  In  the 
case  of  every  other  theatre  in  Europe,  of  every  other  art  in 
England  save  theatrical  art,  this  truth  has  been  realised. 
It  is  the  art  of  the  actor  that  has  suffered  most  in  the 
course  of  the  struggle  ;  long  runs,  constant  performances, 
no  reasonable  man  will  deny,  are  baneful  to  the  artist 

62 


IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

Perhaps  some  persons  in  this  country  may  be  found  who 
will  say  that  the  art  of  the  actor  is  not  worthy  of  protec- 
tion or  encouragement ;  there  are  persons  to  whom  it  gives 
quite  exceptional  delight  to  call  violinists  "  fiddlers,11  writers 
"  ink-slingers,"  painters  "  daubers,"  and  actors  "  mummers."" 
They  are  the  Philistines,  and  belong  to  all  centuries.  We 
see  them  at  their  fell  work  in  the  eighteenth  as  well  as  the 
nineteenth  and  twentieth  centuries.  But  an  impartial 
study  of  the  history  of  this  eighteenth -century  theatre 
proves  to  us  conclusively  that,  under  propitious  conditions, 
England  is  a  soil  as  favourable  to  the  production  of  fine 
actors  as  any  other,  and  that  the  traditions  of  the  English 
stage  are  as  deserving  as  those  of  any  other  theatre  of 
fostering  care  and  preservation.  That  any  system 
approaching  the  conditions  of  our  eighteenth-century 
theatres  could  ever  be  reproduced  in  our  own  time  may 
be  a  vain,  a  delusive  hope ;  and  we  shall  be  perhaps  forced 
to  content  ourselves  with  looking  back  with  longing  and 
regret  to  the  splendid  vitality,  the  zealous  emulation,  the 
spacious  record  of  those  great  and  palmy  days  of  the 
English  actors. 


The  Art  and  Status  of  the  Actor 


65 


THE  ART  AND  STATUS  OF  THE 
ACTOR1 

ON  the  only  occasion  on  which  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
attending  one  of  the  ordinary  meetings  of  the  Playgoers1 
Club,  I  heard  a  very  entertaining  paper  read  on  the 
subject  of  "  The  Overrated  Drama,""  in  which  the  extrava- 
gant proportions  to  which  the  business  of  the  theatre  had 
attained  at  the  present  moment  were  feelingly  deplored 
and  pleasantly  satirised.  With  your  permission  I  would 
to-night,  for  a  short  space,  direct  your  attention  to  an 
integral  part  of  this  inflated  factor  in  our  modern  life 
— I  mean  the  overrated  actor ;  and  I  would  ask  you 
to  look  with  me  into  some  of  the  popular  fallacies  that 
still  lurk  around  the  theatre,  its  art,  and  the  exponents 
of  its  art. 

Though  the  art  of  the  actor  has  become  firmly  fixed  in 
the  respect  and  esteem  of  most  thinking  men,  one  is  still 
liable  to  meet  with  occasional  outbursts  of  vigorous  and 
unsparing  denunciation  directed  against  this  particular 
art  and  the  calling  it  employs.  When  these  diatribes 
are  sincere,  when  they  do  not  bear  evident  marks  of 
personal  spleen  or  rancour,  we  are  naturally  led  to  ask 
ourselves  what  is  the  cause  or  causes  from  which  they 
spring,  for  there  must  be  some  reason  for  manifestations 
of  this  kind,  however  extravagant  they  may  at  first 
appear.  I  believe  that  if  we  look  into  them  we  shall  find 

1  Read  before  the  O.  P.  Club,  April,  1901,  and  reprinted  from 
The  Fortnightly  Review. 

67 


THE   ART  AND  STATUS 

that  their  origin  is  to  be  traced  to  the  peculiar  conditions 
of  the  histrionic  art,  to  illusions  it  cherishes  in  the  minds 
of  many  even  of  its  admirers,  to  prejudices  it  excites  in 
the  minds  of  persons  ignorant  of  its  real  working,  to  the 
envy  and  hostility  it  evokes  from  those  who  regard  its 
glittering  triumphs  and  widespread  popularity  as  unalloyed 
with  serious  endeavour,  with  anxiety  and  disappointment, 
with  those  cares  and  troubles  that  are  the  universal 
accompaniments  of  every  other  form  of  human  undertaking. 
By  examining  some  of  these  fallacies,  by  trying  to  see  the 
art  and  position  of  the  actor  as  it  really  is,  by  seeing  how 
easily  men  may  frame  mistaken  ideas  of  the  purposes  and 
achievements  of  the  theatre,  it  may  be  possible  to  explain, 
if  not  to  allay,  these  periodical  bursts  of  indignation,  to 
disarm  of  some  of  their  terrors  the  last  eruptions  of  the 
now  almost  extinct  volcano  of  anti-theatrical  prejudice. 

If  we  are  to  pay  attention  to  the  note  of  alarm  and 
distress  sounded  by  one  or  two  writers,  we  must  believe 
that  the  inflation  of  the  actor  has  reached  a  degree 
of  tumefaction  that  brings  him  very  near  to  bursting 
point ;  in  his  efforts  to  swell  himself  out  to  the  propor- 
tions of  other  artists,  or  to  emulate  the  ways  and  manners 
of  the  real  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  whom,  by  a 
deplorable  relaxation  of  social  restraints,  he  has  been 
allowed  to  mingle,  he  is  approaching  within  measurable 
distance  of  the  melancholy  catastrophe  that  overtook  the 
too  ambitious  frog.  For  my  own  part,  I  believe  that  this 
alarming  picture  of  the  aggrandisement  of  the  actor  is 
rather  a  nightmare  caused  by  an  over-indulgence  in  trivial 
gossip  and  unimportant  newspaper  paragraphs  than  a  real 
presentation  of  a  crying  evil.  The  public  at  large  are,  I 
feel  certain,  practically  unmoved  by  the  case  that  has  been 
put  before  them.  Those  who  have  lent  themselves  to  the 
promotion  of  the  actor  from  the  outskirts  of  social 
respectability,  and  have  admitted  him  into  the  gilded 
saloons  of  the  aristocracy  in  which  he  is,  by  some  people, 

68 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

supposed  to  uneasily  disport  himself,  have  acted  in 
obedience  to  the  levelling  spirit  of  an  age  that  has  broken 
down  barriers  which  class  distinction  or  religious  prejudice 
had  set  up  ;  and  as  the  actor  has  borne  himself  with  a 
sufficient  grace  and  an  abstention  from  actual  outrage 
equal  to  that  displayed  by  successful  merchants  or 
musicians  under  similar  circumstances,  our  social  leaders 
are  not  likely  to  at  present  revoke  the  privilege  accorded 
to  him,  at  the  bidding  of  those  who  represent  him  as  a 
standing  menace  to  a  well-conducted  household.  For 
playgoers,  keenly  interested  in  the  actor  as  they  see  him 
on  the  stage  and  follow  him  in  the  exercise  of  his  art,  it 
is  a  matter,  I  am  sure,  of  supreme  indifference  whether 
the  player's  doings  are  assiduously  and  often  indiscreetly 
chronicled  in  the  press,  or  whether  he  is  received  into 
gilded  saloons,  be  they  those  of  noblemen  or  those  not 
infrequently  associated  with  spirituous  refreshment.  To 
most  reasonable  men,  the  social  position  of  any  body  of 
artists  signifies  little :  it  is  to  their  achievements  in  their 
respective  fields  of  art  that  men  look  with  interest  and 
anxiety.  But  if  competent  judges  admire  an  actor's  work, 
if  they  see  in  it  evidences  of  high  intelligence  and  careful 
study,  they  will  be  rather  pleased  than  dissatisfied  that 
such  work  should  meet  with  recognition  from  those  who 
are  in  a  position  to  encourage  and  stimulate  such  talent 
or  genius  as  we  may  have  amongst  us,  whatever  the  form 
of  artistic  effort  in  which  it  chooses  to  manifest  itself. 
No  unworthy  feeling  of  envy  would  arise  in  their  minds 
on  seeing  an  art  that,  in  its  higher  manifestations,  has  a 
long  record  of  well-accredited  genius,  raised  from  an 
unworthy  obscurity,  which  had  formerly  re-acted  with 
baleful  effect  on  the  lives  and  characters  of  its  exponents ; 
they  would  rather  rejoice  that,  in  the  words  of  Hazlitt, 
"  the  actor  has  now  an  opportunity  of  being  as  respectable 
as  he  may  be,  because  his  profession  is  respected  as  it  ought 
to  be." 

69 


THE   ART  AND   STATUS 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  unnatural  that  the  rapid 
advancement  in  certain  directions  of  a  calling,  long  re- 
garded with  contempt  and  disapproval  by  a  large  section 
of  our  countrymen,  should  have  excited  in  some  breasts 
sincere  feelings  of  astonishment  and  resentment ;  in  some 
a  feeling  of  jealousy  that  those  they  had,  as  the  habit  of 
a  lifetime,  regarded  as  beneath  them  should,  in  some 
respects,  be  promoted  over  their  heads ;  in  some,  blind 
to  the  higher  aspects  of  the  art  and  capable  only  of  fixing 
their  gaze  on  its  obvious  imperfections,  a  regrettable  spirit 
of  uncharitable  hostility.  It  is  from  persons  belonging 
to  these  categories  that  come  those  attacks  upon  the  actor 
and  his  art  which  break  out  periodically,  and  which,  if 
they  reflected  public  opinion,  might  seriously  distract  the 
actor  in  the  midst  of  his  fancied  security  in  public  esteem. 
Fortunately,  these  attacks  are  matters  of  supreme  in- 
difference to  the  public  for  reasons  I  have  already  indicated, 
and  that  is  why  they  meet  with  no  considerable  response 
from  the  actors  themselves.  A  newspaper,  in  reviewing 
a  work  of  this  kind,  remarked  with  some  asperity  that 
actors  were  notoriously  indifferent  to  attacks  on  their 
profession.  But  I  think  the  reason  for  this  indifference 
should  provoke,  on  the  part  of  those  who  make  these 
attacks,  a  reconsideration  of  the  wisdom  of  their  course 
rather  than  resentment  at  the  actor's  silence.  The 
actor  is  indifferent  to  such  attacks  merely  because  the 
public,  his  masters,  are  indifferent  to  them.  They  form 
their  own  judgment  of  actors  both  in  their  public  and 
private  capacities  ;  they  are  shrewd  enough  to  exercise 
their  own  discretion  in  the  distribution  of  their  favours, 
and  the  actor  will  only  be  alarmed  for  the  decline  of 
his  prestige  when  he  finds  his  art  sunk  and  degraded  in 
the  estimation  of  his  honest  fellow-countrymen. 

One  other  topic  suggests  itself  with  regard  to  the 
changes  that  have  occurred  in  the  relative  status  of  the 
actor. 

70 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

The  resentment  felt  by  some  at  his  advance  in  public 
esteem,  or  a  spirit  of  blind  conservatism  that  believes  that 
the  actor  finds  his  best  intellectual  development  in  tavern 
bars  or  billiard  saloons,  is  responsible  for  a  sneer  occasion- 
ally levelled  at  our  modern  stage  which  is  as  unjust  as  it 
is  illogical.     We  sometimes  come  across  the   complaint, 
not  only  outside  but  inside  our  calling,  that  the  art  of 
acting  is  steadily  deteriorating,  because  the  stage  is  being 
nowadays  invaded  by  a  number  of  well-born,  well-bred,  or 
well-educated  young  men  and  women,  who  are  represented 
as  being  totally  ignorant  of  their  business,  and  apparently 
incapable  of  ever  learning  it.     Now  if  the  art  of  acting  is 
nowadays   really  in  a  state  of  deterioration   (a  question 
open  to  argument),  it  is,  I  venture  to  think,  in  the  highest 
degree  fallacious  to  represent  such  deterioration  as  in  any 
way  due  to  the  influx  into  our  calling  of  well-bred  or 
well-educated  recruits.     Of  course  the  genius  for  acting  is, 
as  any  other  form  of  artistic  genius,  conferred  upon  persons, 
irrespective  of  their  rank  or  education,  of  whether  they 
come  from  the  palace  or  the  plough,  the  board  school  or 
the  university  ;  and  with  such  persons  we  have  no  concern  ; 
they  may  be  trusted  to  look  after  themselves.     But  if  the 
ordinary  level  of  acting  appears   to   be  in    a   depressed 
condition   that   condition    is   due   to   the    fact   that   our 
modern  actors  lack  the  opportunities  for  acquiring  training 
and  experience  that  were  enjoyed  by  our  predecessors,  and 
not  to  the  fact  that  they  now  number   among  them  a 
greater  percentage  of  well-educated  men.      It  is,  on  the 
other  hand,  difficult   to   believe   that   any  profession    or 
calling  or  art  does  not  indirectly  benefit,  in  the  general 
level  of  its  excellence,  by  being  pursued  by  well-educated 
men   and  women,  and  that  that   of  the  actor  will  not 
appreciably  suffer,  but  will  rather  gain  in  some  respects, 
by  numbering  among  its  exponents  men  and  women  who 
enjoy  such  advantages  as  a  good  education  confers  on  any 
reasonable  being.     Birth  and  breeding  and  education  will 

71 


THE   ART   AND   STATUS 

not  make  great  actors,  but  they  will  not  mar  them.  To 
the  many  who  are  not  great  they  will  not  take  the  place 
of  training  and  experience,  but  they  will  enable  them  to 
satisfy  the  demands  of  those  who  expect  to  see  accurately 
represented  on  the  stage  every  side  of  our  social  life,  and 
who  believe  that  the  stage,  to  fulfil  that  purpose,  should 
draw  its  exponents  from  all  classes  of  the  community.  As 
the  prejudice  against  the  theatre  diminishes  in  intensity, 
the  calling  of  the  actor  will  be  necessarily  open  to  classes 
by  whom  it  had  been  hitherto  severely  neglected.  If  this 
stock  of  new  blood  does  not  materially  add  to  our  stock 
of  great  actors,  in  other  respects  it  will,  I  believe,  be  of 
indirect  benefit  to  our  art. 

We  must  not,  however,  forget  that,  according  to  some, 
the  performance  of  the  actor  is  hardly  to  be  dignified  by 
the  name  of  an  art,  or,  if  it  is,  it  is  an  art  so  paltry  and 
unintellectual  as  wholly  unworthy  to  be  ranked  with  its 
sisters.  The  actor  is  usually  subjected  to  destructive 
criticism  in  his  dual  capacity  of  artist  and  man.  As 
an  artist  he  is  said  to  be  the  exponent  of  a  form  of 
mimicry  little  raised  above  that  practised  by  the  ape, 
unworthy  to  be  dignified  by  the  name  of  art,  demanding, 
as  it  does,  no  exercise  of  study  or  intelligence ;  as  a  man, 
he  is  said  to  be  so  corrupted  by  the  inherent  immorality 
of  his  calling  and  the  vanity  fostered  in  him  by  excessive 
adulation  that  he  is  unfitted  to  hold  social  intercourse 
with  respectable  or  intellectual  people.  If  this  view  of 
the  conduct  and  capacity  of  the  actor  can  be  successfully 
established  and  generally  accepted  as  the  true  one,  it  is 
obvious  that  he  will  sink  to  a  level  in  the  social  scale  only 
slightly  above  that  occupied  by  the  common  hangman, 
without,  however,  the  excuse  enjoyed  by  the  latter  artist 
that,  in  pursuing  his  ignoble  calling,  he  is  conferring  a 
practical  service  on  the  community.  Indeed,  from  the 
extremely  unamiable  tone  adopted  by  some  recent  critics 
in  their  strictures  on  the  unfortunate  actor,  one  would  be 

72 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

inclined  to  infer  that  if  these  gentlemen  were  obliged  to 
strike  a  balance  between  the  respective  claims  of  the  great 
actor  Betterton  and  his  famous  contemporary,  John  Ketch, 
to  the  respectful  esteem  of  posterity,  they  would  pronounce 
unhesitatingly  in  favour  of  the  latter. 

But  to  pass  to  more  serious  criticism,  criticism  that  is 
not  conspicuously  wanting  in  that  "  sweetness  and  light " 
which  should  be  the  first  attribute  of  all  such  controversy, 
there  are  one  or  two  points  raised  by  those  who  represent 
the  art  of  acting  as  an  inferior  and  unworthy  art  that 
claim  passing  consideration.  It  is  true  that  Leigh  Hunt 
pronounced  all  such  attempts  to  degrade  the  actor's  art  as 
unworthy  of  argument ;  and  so  for  the  most  part  they  may 
be.  At  the  same  time,  by  discussing  some  of  them  in  a  general 
way,  one  may  arrive  at  certain  truths  with  regard  to  that 
art,  truths  which  at  the  present  time,  when,  in  the  opinion 
of  many,  the  art  of  acting  has  lost  something  of  that 
distinct  prominence  which  it  enjoyed  a  hundred  years  ago, 
may  serve  to  remind  us  of  its  higher  aspects  and  possi- 
bilities, and  stimulate  those  who  are  sincerely  anxious  that 
it  should  not  decline  from  its  glorious  past. 

If  the  art  of  acting  is  to  look  for  its  credentials  to  our 
admiration  and  respect,  to  the  judgment  of  the  world's 
great  critics  of  art,  it  finds  arrayed  on  its  side  a  wealth  of 
powerful  testimony  that  is  too  frequently  entirely  ignored 
by  modern  writers  in  dealing  with  this  question.  At  the 
hands  of  his  detractors,  from  Mr.  Augustine  Birrell  down- 
wards, the  actor  finds  himself  confronted  at  the  outset 
with  lines  penned  by  Shakespeare  and  Macready  in  those 
moments  of  passing  disappointment  or  depression  that  are 
the  almost  inseparable  accompaniments  of  the  artistic 
temperament,  and  is  told  that  his  art  is  irrevocably  con- 
demned out  of  the  mouths  of  its  greatest  exponents.  But 
the  reverse  side  of  the  picture  is  seldom  presented  to  him. 
He  is  not  reminded  that,  in  the  words  of  Shakespeare's 
latest  and  best  biographer,  such  self-pity  as  the  poet 

73 


THE   ART  AND  STATUS 

expresses  in  the  Sonnets  on  account  of  his  pursuit  of  the 
actor's  calling  is,  if  literally  interpreted,  the  reflection  of 
an  evanescent  mood,  that  his  interest  in  all  that  touched 
the  efficiency  of  his  profession  was  permanently  active,  and 
that  he  loyally  and  uninterruptedly  pursued  that  pro- 
fession until  he  had  resigned  all  connection  with  the 
theatre  ;  nor  do  we  find  invoked  against  the  grumblings 
of  Macready  his  definition  of  the  art  of  acting  which,  if 
somewhat  turgid  in  expression,  is  none  the  less  dignified 
and  inspiring.  Are  we,  in  similar  fashion,  to  condemn 
the  profession  of  the  advocate  because  Mr.  Birrell,  K.C., 
in  his  essay  on  "  Actors,"  writes  that  Macready — these  are 
his  actual  words — "  was  always  regretting — heaven  help 
him! — that  he  wasn't  a  barrister-at-law ? "  Should  we 
not  rather  decide  that  Mr.  BirrelPs  mournful  exclamation 
springs  from  a  painful  but  evanescent  recollection  of  early 
brieflessness  rather  than  from  an  enduring  contempt  for 
the  profession  he  adorns  ?  In  the  same  spirit  are  an 
actor's  momentary  expressions  of  a  passing  discontent 
with  his  lot,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  most  auto- 
biographical records,  to  stand  against  the  considered 
judgments  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  Voltaire  and  Lessing, 
Hazlitt  and  Leigh  Hunt,  George  Eliot  and  George 
Henry  Lewes  ?  all  pronouncing  in  favour  of  the  beauty 
and  dignity  of  an  art  "  which  Horace  did  not  think  it 
beneath  his  genius  to  advise,  Addison  to  recommend,  and 
Voltaire  to  practise  as  well  as  to  protect.""  If  the  value 
of  an  art  is  to  be  decided  by  the  impression  it  makes  in 
its  more  perfected  form  on  the  highest  intellects  of  its 
time — and  it  is  perhaps  difficult  to  find  a  more  satisfactory 
criterion  for  ordinary  men — then  the  art  of  acting  comes 
to  us  stamped  with  the  respect  of  genius,  confided  to  our 
care  by  illustrious  men  as  a  product  of  the  imagination 
and  intellect  of  mankind  that  is  to  be  encouraged  and 
esteemed,  not  belittled  and  derided. 

The  commonest  fallacy,  cherished  by  many  in  regard  to 

74 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

the  actor's  art,  is  that  it  is  the  art  of  the  mimic  and 
nothing  more>  an  art  of  sedulous  imitation,  offering  no 
scope  to  originality  or  independent,  intellectual  exertion. 
A  rough-and-ready  answer  to  this  common  assertion  is 
contained  in  the  fact  that  good  mimics  are  as  a  rule 
notoriously  bad  actors,  and  that  obviously  the  sedulous 
imitation  of  actual  men  and  women  in  the  circumstances 
of  our  daily  life  can  afford  an  actor  little  help  in  the 
portrayal  of  such  creations  of  imaginative  genius  as  Hamlet 
or  Othello.  That  the  art  of  acting  had  its  origin,  in 
common  with  the  pictorial  arts,  in  an  imitation  of  nature, 
is  possible  and  probable ;  that  it  soon  passed  from  mere 
imitation  to  representation  is  certain ;  and  therefore 
equally  certain  is  it  to  my  mind  that,  as  a  result  of  that 
transition,  the  actor  is  called  upon,  in  common  with  other 
representative  artists,  to  reproduce  in  idealised  form  that 
branch  of  nature — man — which  is  his  especial  study.  As 
one  great  critic  has  tersely  expressed  it,  "  neither  the  poet 
nor  the  actor  pretends  closely  to  copy  nature,  but  only  to 
represent  nature  sublimated  into  the  ideal,"  and  it  is  this 
process  of  idealism  that  the  actor  must  apply  to  every 
character  he  undertakes  to  portray,  no  matter  how  nearly 
that  character  may  seem  to  approach  to  everyday  reality, 
if  he  would  present  it  conformably  to  those  rules  of  correct 
and  beautiful  expression  that  are  as  imperative  in  the  art 
of  the  theatre  as  they  are  in  the  arts  that  express  them- 
selves on  canvas  or  in  marble.  The  carrying  out  of  this 
process  calls  on  him  for  gifts  of  insight  and  imagination 
similar  to  those  we  look  for  in  any  other  form  of  artist ; 
and  as  insight  and  imagination  of  the  highest  order  are 
employed  in  the  creation  by  the  poet  of  such  transcendent 
beings  as  Hamlet  or  Lear,  so  in  translating  such  beings 
into  action,  in  putting  them  before  the  spectator  as 
creatures  of  flesh  and  blood,  insight  and  imagination  of  a 
high  order  will  alone  enable  the  actor  to  achieve  that 
"  union  of  grandeur  without  pomp,  and  nature  without 

75 


THE   ART  AND  STATUS 

triviality,""  that  supreme  idealisation  of  man  in  action  as 
we  see  him  about  us,  which  is  the  fitting  and  worthy 
complement  of  the  art  of  the  dramatic  poet.  Without 
in  any  way  detracting  from  the  share  of  the  dramatist  in 
the  productions  of  the  theatre,  it  must,  I  think,  be  ad- 
mitted by  any  one  who  takes  the  trouble  to  consider  the 
question  from  an  enlightened  standpoint,  that  the  actor  is 
not  the  mere  parrot-like  reciter  of  the  words  of  the  play- 
wright, that  the  higher  the  dramatist  soars  the  greater  is 
his  need  of  some  kind  of  intellectual  response  on  the  part 
of  his  actors,  and  that  instead  of  setting  up  actor  and 
author  as  rivals  who  are  perpetually  endeavouring  to 
extend  their  frontiers  at  each  other's  expense,  they  should 
be  regarded  as  equal  participators  in  the  highest  achieve- 
ments of  the  theatre. 

The  answer  of  G.  H.  Lewes  to  the  question  propounded 
by  Diderot  in  his  famous  Parodoxe,  How  far  does  or 
should  the  actor  really  feel  the  passion  he  expresses  ?  is  not 
only  interesting  as  a  correct  solution  of  a  rather  simple 
problem  that  has  given  rise  to  a  good  deal  of  ignorant 
and  thoughtless  comment,  but  shows  us  very  clearly  the 
point  in  his  art  where  the  actor  is  called  upon  to  exercise 
a  faculty  for  intelligent  selection  similar  to  that  demanded 
from  any  other  artist.  "  As  in  all  art,"  writes  Lewes, 
"feeling  lies  at  the  root,  but  the  foliage  and  flowers, 
though  deriving  their  sap  from  emotion,  derive  their  form 
and  structure  from  the  intellect."  Poet  and  actor  must 
be  capable  of  feeling  the  emotions  they  translate  into 
word  or  action,  but  must  be  so  far  masters  of  themselves 
as  to  be  able  to  select  from  their  emotions  those  elements 
that  will  serve  as  materials  for  their  art.  "  The  sudden 
flash  of  suggestion  which  is  called  inspiration  may  be 
valuable,  it  may  be  worthless  ;  the  artistic  intellect  esti- 
mates the  value,  and  accepts  or  rejects  it  accordingly." 
Passion  and  reflection  are  the  two  elements  that,  happily 
combined,  compose  great  acting;  for  passion  alone  pro- 

76 


duces  disordered  results,  reflection  alone  a  cold  and  unreal 
imitation.  If  the  combination  be  a  rare  one,  that  is  a 
cause  for  constant  regret ;  we  may  lament  the  absence  of 
worthy  exponents  of  an  art  to  our  heart's  content ;  but 
we  must  not  allow  the  absence  of  great  acting  to  blind  us 
to  the  fact  that  acting  is  a  great  art ;  those  who  deplore 
our  modern  acting,  and  call  for  its  reform,  too  often  forfeit 
our  attention  and  respect  by  telling  us  at  the  same  time 
that  our  art  is  contemptible  and  an  unworthy  employment 
for  an  intellectual  man.  Such  criticism  can  only  have  the 
effect  of  placing  the  modern  actor,  who  seeks  to  improve 
and  develop  his  art,  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma,  from  which, 
however,  a  moderate  exercise  of  reason  and  common  sense 
may  successfully  extricate  him. 

Another  common  objection  urged  against  the  claims  of 
the  actor's  art  to  occupy  a  place  by  the  side  of  other  arts, 
is  that  the  actor's  is  an  art  for  which  no  special  training 
is  required,  his  calling  one  into  which  anybody  can  enter 
and,  no  matter  how  inferior  his  attainments,  find  immediate 
employment.  But  the  same  might  be  said  of  the  art  of 
literature,  or  the  art  of  oratory.  All  those  arts  which 
have  not,  like  music  and  painting,  a  visible  technique 
written,  so  to  speak,  across  their  faces,  which  operates  as 
an  immediate  deterrent  to  thoughtless  aspirants,  are  liable 
to  reckless  invasion  at  the  hands  of  people  whose  desires 
and  ambitions  are  hopelessly  in  excess  of  their  gifts.  To 
write  or  to  speak  or  to  act  seem  uncommonly  easy  to  a 
number  of  over-confident  persons ;  some  of  these  are 
content  with  merely  regarding  the  art  from  a  disrespectful 
distance,  and  nursing  an  obstinate  conviction  that  they 
could  easily  practise  it  if  they  only  took  the  trouble  to  try  ; 
others  do  try,  and  in  course  of  time  go  to  swell  the 
melancholy  army  of  those  who  have  mistaken  their 
vocations  in  life.  But  because  bad  literature,  bad  oratory, 
and  bad  acting  are,  like  the  poor,  always  with  us,  and 
there  are  probably  few  here  who  at  various  times  in  their 

77 


THE   ART   AND  STATUS 

armchair,  at  church,  or  in  the  theatre,  have  not  suffered 
distress  at  the  hands  of  incompetence  in  one  or  all  of  these 
forms,  are  we  to  deny  that  writing  or  speaking  or  acting, 
if  thoughtfully,  instead  of  thoughtlessly  practised,  reveal 
their  rules  of  form  and  expression  to  those  who  cultivate 
them  seriously,  and  demand  the  same  lifelong  adherence 
on  the  part  of  those  who  follow  them  in  the  hope  of 
attaining  to  some  measure  of  perfection,  as  the  arts  whose 
preliminaries  are  more  obviously  technical  ? 

At  the  same  time  it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that,  of  all 
artistic  callings,  that  of  the  actor  offers  most  temptation 
to  loafers  and  those  who  have  failed  in  almost  every  other 
capacity  in  life.  The  term  "  actor "  is  a  wide  one,  and 
covers  a  multitude  of  persons  who  would  no  doubt  frankly 
confess  that  their  presence  on  the  stage  was  not  due  to 
any  desire  to  pursue  acting  as  an  art.  For  purposes  of 
legislation,  and  in  everyday  talk,  all  kinds  of  stage 
representation,  each  excellent  in  its  way,  are  lumped 
together,  and  the  exponents  of  these  various  forms  of 
entertainment,  in  some  of  which  the  art  of  acting  plays 
a  comparatively  subordinate  part,  are  grouped  together 
generically  as  actors  and  actresses.  And  thus  it  is  that 
persons  who  have  never  acted  in  their  lives,  whose  associa- 
tion with  the  theatre  has  been  dumb  and  fleeting,  do  not 
hesitate  to  satisfy,  when  occasion  demands,  the  exigencies 
of  their  country's  justice  by  describing  themselves  on 
charge  sheets  and  other  legal  documents  of  a  melancholy 
character  as  actors  and  actresses.  No  calling  is  so  rich 
in  sutlers  and  camp-followers,  because  no  calling  is  so  easy 
to  enter  in  some  capacity  or  other,  no  term  is  so  loosely 
employed  as  that  of  actor,  and  no  calling  offers  to  the 
outsider  such  seeming  allurements  to  decoy  the  ignorant 
and  unwary.  We  all  of  us  have  known,  in  some  form  or 
other,  the  glamour  of  the  theatre  to  those  who  sit  in  front 
of  the  curtain.  How  many  really  well-informed  persons 
find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  acting  is  not  "  such  fun," 

78 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

and  the  whole  business  nothing  but  one  long  round  of 
applause  and  suppers.  There  are  four  prime  fallacies  that 
I  have  found  to  be  constantly  entertained  by  intelligent 
ladies  and  gentlemen  with  regard  to  the  work  of  the 
actor ;  they  are :  firstly,  that  he  is  surrounded  in  the 
theatre  by  a  large  staff'  of  intelligent  and  willing  attendants 
whose  nightly  duty  it  is  to  dress  him  and  make  up  his  face 
for  him ;  secondly,  that,  in  his  performance,  he  speaks  the 
author's  words  or  not,  as  his  fancy  may  dictate  ;  thirdly, 
that,  during  the  run  of  a  piece  he  can  accept  an  invitation 
to  dinner  by  merely  mentioning  to  his  manager  his  in- 
tention of  absenting  himself  on  that  particular  evening, 
when  his  understudy  will,  as  a  matter  of  course,  take  his 
place  ;  and,  fourthly,  that  the  evening's  performance  in- 
variably terminates  with  a  delightful  supper  served  in  the 
green-room,  to  which  all  the  actors  and  actresses  concerned 
in  the  piece  are  bidden.  Let  me  assure  you  that  not 
one  of  these  delightful  suppositions  has  the  least  foundation 
in  fact,  and  that  I  have  only  cited  them  as  instances  of 
the  illusions  cherished  by  rational  persons  as  to  the  actual 
conditions  of  the  actor's  calling.  Further,  they  will  explain 
those  attractions  that  the  theatre  offers  to  lazy,  thoughtless, 
vain,  or  indolent  persons,  who  find  their  way  behind  the 
curtain,  not  because  they  wish  to  take  the  first  step  in 
pursuing  an  art  for  which  they  feel  a  genuine  love,  and  in 
which  they  have  some  reason  to  hope  that  they  may,  by 
hard  work,  ultimately  enjoy  some  measure  of  success,  but 
because  they  look  forward  to  being  highly  paid  for  doing 
little,  much  applauded  for  making  fools  of  themselves,  and 
constantly  supplied  with  opportunities  for  dissipation  and 
indulgence  of  every  kind. 

Illusions  of  this  kind  will  be  cherished  in  regard  to  the 
business  of  the  theatre  as  long  as  the  theatre  exists  ;  they 
spring  from  the  nature  of  things,  from  the  glamour  that 
surrounds  the  actual  representation  of  a  play ;  from  the 
ignorance  of  ordinary  persons  as  to  the  real  conditions  of 

79 


THE   ART   AND  STATUS 

such  representation.  What  is  more,  they  are  the  ground- 
work of  those  reckless  and  uncharitable  charges  levelled 
against  men  and  women  of  the  dramatic  profession  by 
unblushing  Pharisees  who  would  hold  up  tneir  hands  in 
horror  if  you  asked  them  to  enter  a  theatre,  but  who  yet 
continue  to  unsparingly  denounce  the  sins  and  follies  of 
actors  and  actresses.  These  teachers  and  preachers  who, 
I  am  Sorry  to  say,  number  among  them  more  than  one 
religious  minister  of  respectable  eminence,  seem  to  forget, 
in  their  fervid  zeal,  that  there  is  no  sin  more  ugly  and 
unchristian  than  want  of  charity,  no  proceeding  more 
dishonest  than  to  accuse  without  investigation  and  to 
judge  without  evidence.  If  such  persons  are  honestly  bent 
on  correcting  what  they  believe  to  be  the  evils  that 
corrupt  the  theatre,  let  them  adopt  the  same  methods  for 
reforming  the  theatre  they  would  apply  to  Ratcliffe  High- 
way, or  to  the  conversion  of  African  savages  ;  let  them 
come  amongst  us,  let  them  manfully  face  the  perils  and 
dangers  of  the  dark  continent  that  lies  behind  the  curtain, 
let  them  watch  in  its  actual  working  the  life  of  the 
theatre,  let  them  satisfy  themselves  by  personal  investi- 
gation of  the  evils  they  denounce  ;  then,  having  reformed 
their  methods  of  arriving  at  a  judgment,  they  may,  if  there 
be  need,  reform  us ;  then  we  may,  if  we  require  the  lesson, 
learn  to  be  true  to  our  profession,  when  they  have  shown 
themselves  true  to  theirs ;  but  unchristian  anathema  from 
those  who  profess  themselves  followers  of  Christ  will  not 
convince  the  simplest  sinner  of  the  error  of  his  ways.  It 
was  not  a  teacher  of  this  kind  who  reformed  the  publican. 
Speaking  from  my  own  experience,  I  would  assure  those 
who  are  honestly  anxious  to  see  the  calling  of  an  actor  as 
it  really  is,  that  it  is  one  in  which  a  great  deal  of  hard, 
and  at  times,  tiresome  work  has  to  be  done,  that  its 
advantages  and  its  drawbacks  are  like  those  of  any  other 
profession,  equally  divided ;  that  success  in  it  is  generally 
proportionate  to  merit ;  that  it  has  its  trials  and  tempta- 

80 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

tions — and  what  profession  has  not  trials  and  temptations 
peculiar  to  itself? — that  it  is  a  calling  very  varied  in  its 
many  forms  of  expression,  some  less  dignified  and  intel- 
lectual than  others,  but  that  if  we  regard  its  highest 
examples,  the  examples  of  a  Garrick  or  a  Kean,  as  in 
judging  the  real  service  of  painting  or  poetry  we  should 
regard  the  examples  of  Raphael  and  Milton  as  distinct 
from  those  of  the  pot-boiler  or  the  ballad-monger,  it  is 
worthy  to  rank  by  the  side  of  arts  that  rely  on  the 
intellect  or  the  imagination  of  man  for  their  supreme 
manifestation.  Let  men  once  free  their  minds  from  the 
wealth  of  illusion  and  misrepresentation  that  hangs  round 
the  glittering  achievements  of  the  theatre,  and  they  will 
come  to  regard  the  actor  not  as  a  kind  of  meretricious 
bogey,  but  as  in  reality  an  ordinary  worker  in  the  field  of 
art,  neither  better  nor  worse  than  his  fellows ;  then,  and 
not  till  then,  will  they  arrive  at  a  juster  and  kindlier 
estimate  of  the  actor's  work,  and  save  themselves  the 
ineffectual  labour  of  trying  to  bring  into  contempt  an  art 
that  has  too  long  ministered  to  the  higher  pleasure  of 
mankind  to  be  uprooted  from  their  affection  and  esteem 
by  an  ill-natured  catalogue  of  the  weaknesses  of  its  ex- 
ponents and  the  trivial  side  of  its  practice.  The  critic 
who  would  obscure  the  intellectual  importance  of  an  art, 
the  real  essence  of  its  genius,  by  the  slighting  enumeration 
of  such  accidents  in  its  practice  as  that  the  actor  paints 
his  face  and  shaves  his  chin,  or  by  misrepresenting  him  as 
a  slavish  mimic  or  an  insincere  mountebank,  such  a  critic 
merely  confounds  the  accidents  of  an  art  with  its  essence, 
its  rude  origin  with  the  perfected  form  to  which  the 
progress  of  the  human  intellect  has  brought  it. 

I  have  said  that  the  actor  is  open  to  disparagement, 
and  receives  it  sometimes  in  the  heartiest  fashion  both  as 
an  artist  and  a  man.  We  have  dealt  with  him  in  his 
former  capacity  ;  what  are  we  to  say  of  him  in  the  latter  ? 
What  has  the  actor  done  as  a  man  to  deserve  the  re- 

81  G 


THE   ART   AND  STATUS 

probation  that  we  find  some  writers  now  and  then  so 
cordially  bestowing  on  him  ?  After  careful  examination 
I  find  that  the  gravamen  of  the  charge,  the  real  cause 
that  agitates  and  distresses  certain  persons,  is  the  extra- 
ordinary publicity  and  adulation  of  which  the  actor  is 
made  the  object,  publicity  and  adulation  which,  in  their 
opinion,  he  would  not  receive  if  his  own  vanity  and  love 
of  praise  did  not  imperatively  demand  it-  The  actor  is 
represented  as  craving  for  and  living  upon  puffs  and 
paragraphs,  miserable  if  his  most  trivial  doings  escape 
the  notice  of  a  reporter,  elated  if  he  find  himself  the  hero 
of  some  absurd  adventure  or  puerile  controversy.  What- 
ever the  real  causes  of  this  exaggerated  importance  that 
is  said  to  be  attached  to  the  actor  and  his  doings,  and 
however  unfair  to  the  actor  the  inferences  that  may  be 
drawn  from  it,  it  is,  I  think,  undeniable  that  we  frequently 
read  very  foolish  things  written  about  actors,  and  some- 
times very  foolish  words  spoken  by  actors  and  actresses  in 
the  course  of  interviews  ;  it  would  be  idle  to  pretend  that 
the  members  of  the  dramatic  profession  have  never 
supplied  food  for  laughter  and  ridicule  by  absurd  examples 
of  disordered  vanity  or  exaggerated  self-importance.  But 
the  broad  question  which  underlies  these  manifestations 
of  human  weakness,  and  is  raised  by  the  criticisms  they 
provoke,  is  the  simple  one  of  cause  and  effect.  Are  these 
paragraphs  and  these  interviews  concerning  the  actor  that 
are  prominent  in  almost  any  newspaper  we  may  choose  to 
open,  caused  by  his  insatiate  craving  for  publicity,  or  are 
they  printed  and  published  by  the  newspapers  themselves 
in  response  to  public  curiosity  which,  penetrating  as  it 
does  by  means  of  journalism  into  the  privacy  of  any  class 
of  public  character,  finds  most  gratification  and  amusement 
in  invading  the  seclusion  of  the  actor  ?  I  do  not  think 
that  anybody  who  regards  the  question  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  general  conditions  of  our  modern  life,  can  be 
in  any  doubt  as  to  the  true  answer  to  be  given.  Are  our 

82 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

newspapers,  in  giving  so  much  space  in  their  columns  to 
actors  and  their  affairs,  making  themselves  the  agreeable 
slaves  of  the  actor's  vanity,  or  are  they  acting  as  judicious 
caterers  for  the  entertainment  of  the  public  ?  Are  they 
obliging  or  businesslike  ?  Without  in  any  way  detracting 
from  the  genial  benevolence  of  the  journalist,  I  think  we  may 
fairly  say  that  considerations  of  business  are  as  paramount 
in  journalism  as  in  any  other  form  of  public  enterprise, 
and  that  if  the  journalist  pays  great  attention  to  the 
actor  it  is  because  it  profits  him  to  do  so,  because  thereby 
he  is  responding  to  a  public  demand.  Indeed  so  urgent 
is  this  demand,  so  paramount  in  the  public  mind  is  the 
interest  in  the  fortunes  of  actors,  that  the  journalist  is  on 
occasions  obliged  to  forego  considerations  of  good  feeling 
and  good  taste  in  his  anxiety  to  make  a  paragraph  to 
catch  the  eye  of  the  general  reader  as  he  hastily  glances 
over  the  columns  of  his  newspaper.  For  it  can  only  be 
the  all-important  motive  of  arresting  at  all  cost  the 
attention  of  a  reader  that  induces  even  the  best  class  of 
newspaper  to  invariably  head  in  large  type,  with  a 
conspicuous  reference  to  their  calling,  the  most  trivial 
errors  or  misfortunes  of  an  actor  or  actress,  and  that  in 
a  fashion  that  is  not  extended  to  other  callings  or 
professions.  The  only  possible  justification  for  this 
miserable  privilege  accorded  to  members,  or  so-called 
members,  of  the  dramatic  profession  is  that  paltry  wrong- 
doing or  sordid  misfortune  acquires  for  the  ordinary 
reader  a  peculiar  interest  if  it  be  associated,  however 
remotely,  with  an  actor  or  actress.  But  as  it  would  be 
grossly  unfair  to  attribute  the  glaring  headlines  of  our 
daily  papers  in  these  unfortunate  circumstances  to  envy 
or  uncharitableness  on  the  part  of  the  journalist  towards 
the  actor,  so  is  it  equally  unfair  to  entirely  attribute  to 
the  actor's  greedy  vanity  and  self-importance  the  interviews 
and  paragraphs  that  are  usually  extorted  from  him  to 
gratify  a  genuine  thirst  on  the  part  of  the  public  for 

83 


THE   ART  AND  STATUS 

information  relating  to  the  most  generally  popular  of  all 
their  servants. 

"  There  is  no  class  of  society,"  wrote  Hazlitt  nearly  a 
hundred  years  ago,  "  whom  so  many  persons  regard  with 
affection  as  actors,11  and  it  was  the  same  critic  who 
declared  that  the  public  felt  more  respect  for  John 
Kemble  in  a  plain  coat  than  the  Lord  Chancellor  on  the 
woolsack.  What  was  true  then  is  equally  true  now,  and 
to  withstand  or  endeavour  to  correct  the  affection  with 
which  a  great  mass  of  people  regard  the  theatre  and  its 
artists,  is  to  beat  one's  head  against  the  proverbial  brick 
wall.  There  are  many  and  obvious  reason^  for  this 
affection  ;  the  immediate  appeal  made  by  the  actor  in  the 
exercise  of  his  art  to  the  imaginations  of  the  spectators, 
the  fascination  that  the  theatre  possesses  for  persons  of 
all  classes,  the  inevitable  interest  that  an  audience  feels 
in  a  man  whom  they  see  constantly  placed  in  situations 
that  directly  appeal  either  to  their  sense  of  beauty  or  to 
their  emotions,  the  feeling  of  gratitude  that  we  all 
experience  towards  an  artist  who  delights  us,  which  is 
quite  irrespective  of  our  shilling  paid  at  the  turnstile  or 
the  bookstall,  or  the  gallery  door.  That  the  affection 
and  interest  aroused  by  these  circumstances  should  be 
accompanied  by  a  certain  amount  of  silly  and  thoughtless 
adulation  and  prying  curiosity  is  only  to  be  expected  from 
human  nature.  However  worthy  and  justifiable  may  be 
great  outbursts  of  popular  enthusiasm,  when  are  they  not 
marred  by  much  that  is  foolish  and  excessive  ?  In  a  lesser 
degree  the  public  admiration  for  and  interest  in  the  actor 
will  always  exhibit  a  ridiculous  side  and  an  unpleasant 
side.  In  the  one  respect  it  will  show  itself  by  the  excessive 
worship  in  an  actor  or  an  actress  of  qualities  that  are  not, 
strictly  speaking,  intellectual,  in  the  other  by  a  great  deal 
of  wanton  and  mischievous  gossip  about  the  private  lives 
of  popular  favourites.  But  for  all  that  the  affection  of 
the  public  for  its  actors  has  in  it  little  of  which  either 

84 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

party  need  be  ashamed  ;  it  is  sincere,  it  is  natural,  it 
springs  from  no  unworthy  cause,  and  it  is  but  a  fair 
compensation  for  the  comparative  oblivion  into  which  the 
achievements  of  histrionic  genius  must  ultimately  sink. 
To  resent  and  seek  to  destroy  it  is  not  only  a  futile  labour 
but  a  niggardly  and  an  ungracious  one.  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  deny  that  actors  and  public  not  unfrequently  make 
fools  of  themselves  ;  so  do  judges  and  bishops  and  states- 
men, even,  in  these  days  of  journalistic  temptation  ;  but 
the  follies  of  men  are  not  to  be  made  the  measure  of  the 
fitting  place  of  their  work  or  employment  in  the  scheme 
of  things,  be  they  judges  or  bishops  or  statesmen  or 
actors. 

There  is  one  other  topic  dwelt  on  with  some  asperity 
by  opponents  of  the  theatre  with  which  I  will  deal  as 
briefly  as  it  deserves.  I  mean  the  topic  of  the  morals  of 
the  theatre.  The  public  discussion  of  the  mean  level 
of  morality  in  any  profession,  if  pushed  to  inquisitorial 
lengths,  is  a  highly  undesirable  proceeding.  I  would 
only  suggest  a  few  considerations  which  should  be 
preliminary  to  any  investigation  of  this  kind  in  relation 
to  the  theatre.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  commonly  believed 
by  persons  who  have  never  entered  a  theatre,  or  at  least 
passed  behind  the  curtain,  that  the  tender  emotions  and 
sentiments  portrayed  by  actors  and  actresses  towards  each 
other  in  the  course  of  a  play  seldom  stop  short  on  the  fall 
of  the  curtain.  The  words  of  Mole,  the  French  actor,  are 
sufficient  answer  to  that ;  he  writes :  "  I  am  dissatisfied 
with  myself  this  evening ;  I  let  myself  go  too  much,  I  was 
not  master  of  myself ;  I  was  the  character  itself,  not  the 
actor  playing  it."  The  actor  or  actress  worthy  of  the 
name  are  not  the  slaves  but  the  masters  of  the  emotions 
they  portray.  As  Voltaire  pointed  out  there  is,  or 
should  be,  no  greater  moral  danger  to  the  dramatic  artist 
who  portrays  the  passions  of  the  human  heart,  than  to  the 
painter  or  sculptor  who  paints  or  models  from  the  nude. 

85 


THE   ART   AND   STATUS 

Unless  we  are  sunk  in  the  depths  of  Pharisaical  pre- 
judice and  deliberate  ignorance,  we  shall  resent  the  moral 
shortcomings  that  we  may  meet  with  in  the  accredited 
biographies  of  our  gi*eat  actors  and  actresses,  in  the  same 
degree  as  we  should  resent  them  in  those  of  poets  and 
musicians.  But  one  word  of  warning.  It  is  difficult  for 
those  who  have  not  personally  experienced  it,  to  credit  the 
amount  of  wanton  and  utterly  unfounded  scandal  that  is 
spread  abroad  by  tattling  and  uncharitable  persons  with 
regard  to  the  private  lives  of  actors  and  actresses.  Where 
admiration  and  interest  degenerate  into  mischievous 
curiosity,  or  excite  envy  in  inferior  minds,  there  will  be 
found  the  source  of  many  a  lying  tale  or  reckless  invention 
about  those  whom  the  theatre  brings  prominently  before 
the  public.  But  this  is  a  truth  little  realised,  by  many 
hardly  understood.  The  popular  fallacy  that  the  actor 
lives  the  character  he  portrays  not  only  on  the  stage  but 
in  all  the  relations  of  everyday  life,  may  seem  to  many 
a  very  foolish  and  weak-minded  one.  But  we  must 
remember  that  the  audience  in  a  theatre  is  for  the 
most  part  composed  of  persons  entirely  unfamiliar  with 
the  real  conditions  of  theatrical  representation,  hence — 
and  so  far  it  is  as  it  should  be — the  illusion  of  the  theatre 
is  to  them  complete,  often  unfortunately  too  complete  ; 
with  many,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  this  illusion 
follows  the  actor  or  actress  after  they  have  quitted  the 
scene ;  it  is  difficult  to  many  persons  to  believe  that  men 
and  women  who  have  delighted  an  audience  in  extra- 
ordinary and  moving  situations,  who  have  represented 
astonishing  and  impressive  characters,  are  not  at  home 
equally  astonishing  and  impressive,  or  equally  ludicrous  or 
wicked  or  amorous,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  parts 
they  play.  It  is  this  afterglow  of  illusion  that  survives 
the  fall  of  the  curtain,  which  tempts  people  to  pry  into 
the  actor's  private  concerns,  and  greedily  swallow  any 
fantastic  story  that  may  suit  their  preconceived  notions 

86 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

of  what  his  private  life  should  be,  which  is  at  the  root  of 
the  many  improbable  stories  and  far-fetched  inventions 
about  themselves  that  an  actor  or  actress  is  occasionally 
privileged  to  enjoy,  and  which  makes  it  difficult  for  an 
ordinary  spectator  to  believe  that  the  morals  of  theatres 
are  not  as  eccentric  and  disordered  as  those  of  the  morally 
eccentric  or  disordered  persons  actors  and  actresses  are  not 
unfrequently  called  on  to  portray.  How  difficult  to  many 
to  believe  that  the  man  who  is  a  charming  representative 
of  the  gay  Lothario  is  not  similarly  employed  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  daytime,  or  that  the  representative  of 
a  brutal  villain  is  not  continually  engaged  in  rehearsing 
his  brutality  on  his  wife  and  children  !  I  could  repeat 
instances  of  such  unfounded  scandal  ad  nauseam ;  some  of 
them  so  monstrous  as  to  be  incredible  but  for  one's 
personal  experience  of  them.  How  they  arise  and  are 
disseminated  is  a  mystery  ;  but  why  they  arise  and  spread 
rapidly  abroad  is  clear  enough.  Can  the  ambitious  youth 
who  seeks  social  distinction  in  middle-class  drawing-rooms 
or  at  suburban  dinner-tables  better  attract  the  attention 
of  his  hearers  and  exalt  his  own  reputation  as  a  knowing 
and  popular  man  about  town,  than  by  retailing  some  choice 
bit  of  gossip  about  a  popular  actor  or  actress  ?  I  believe 
there  is  no  better  receipt.  As  some  people  believe  any- 
thing they  see  in  print,  so  many  will  believe  anything  they 
hear  of  an  actor  or  actress  they  have  seen  on  the  stage. 
Although  this  readiness  on  the  part  of  many  persons  to 
swallow  unreal  stories  of  men  and  women  whom  they  have 
seen  in  unreal  situations,  springs  from  the  conditions  of 
the  theatre,  no  man  or  woman  of  ordinary  courage  is 
likely  to  be  deterred  from  pursuing  the  art  of  acting 
because,  if  they  are  in  any  degree  successful,  all  sorts  of 
pranks  will  be  played  with  their  private  and  domestic 
concerns.  At  the  same  time  the  morals  of  a  calling  are 
not  to  be  judged  by  the  irresponsible  gossip  that  from  its 
very  conditions  it  is  bound  to  excite.  We  would  not  judge 

87 


THE   ART   AND  STATUS 

the   morals  of  princes  from    the  pages  of  a   scandalous 
chronicle,  or  those  of  judges  and  barristers  from  the  gossip 
of  a  circuit  mess-room  ;  on  the  same  principle  we  must  not 
judge  the  morals  of  actors  and  actresses  from  the  tattle  of 
clubs  and  drawing-rooms.      I   would  not  assert  the  im- 
peccability of  my  own  calling  any  more  than  I  would  assert 
the  impeccability    of  those   other   classes   or   professions 
whose  private  lives  are  not  public  property  in  the  sense 
that  ours  are,  but  I  would  regard  with  peculiar  mistrust 
stories  about  any  body  of  men  and  women  that,  like  those 
of  the  dramatic  profession,  are  so  entirely  at  the  mercy  of 
malicious   or   thoughtless   gossip,   and   I  .would,  for   the 
reasons  I  have  given,  emphatically  warn  those  who  hear 
scandal  relating  to  the  private  lives  of  actors  or  actresses 
that,  of  all  gossip  and  all  scandal,  that  which  hangs  round 
the  theatre  is  the  most  untrustworthy,  that  it  is  to  a  great 
extent  the  outcome  of  an  illusion  which,  if  natural  and 
excusable,  is  none  the  less  inconvenient,  and  that  it  is  very 
liable   to  reckless  dissemination  because  of  the  peculiar, 
sometimes  unfortunately  exaggerated  interest  of  the  public 
in  the  affairs  of  its  victims.     One  statement  recently  made 
with  regard  to  the  moral  aspect  of  the  theatrical  art  was 
to  the  effect  that  purity  in  a  woman  was  a  serious  draw- 
back to  success  as  an  actress — a  specious  and  invidious 
statement,  but  one,  I  think,  not  very  difficult  to  refute. 
It  really  comes  to  this :  as  in  literature,  so  in  the  theatre, 
a  woman  who  has  been  a  wife  and  a  mother  is  more  likely 
to   be   successful   in   dealing   with    human   passions   and 
emotions  than  a  nun.     At  the  same  time,  if  acting  gains 
so  much  from  the  actual  experiences  of  passion,  how  is  it 
that  men,  whose  opportunities  of  cultivating  their  passions 
are  so  much   more  varied  and   extensive   than    those   of 
women,  do  not  surpass  in  any  extraordinary  degree  the 
other  sex  in   the  delineation  of  those  emotions  that  are 
supposed  to  depend  on  actual  experience   for  their  true 
expression  ?      The  history  of  the  stage  has  shown  that 

88 


OF  THE   ACTOR 

they  certainly  do  not.  M.  Coquelin's  cadet's  jesting  re- 
pudiation of  the  virgin  actress  has  no  deeper  or  more 
unpleasant  signification  in  regard  to  the  efforts  of  a  young 
girl  to  achieve  success  as  an  actress  than  it  would  have  in 
regard  to  similar  attempts  in  art  or  literature. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  dealt  very  incompletely  with  what 
is,   all  said   and   done,  a   very  extensive   and   not   alto- 
gether   unimportant    subject.       I    have    left    untouched 
many  topics  suggested  by  the  present  conditions  of  our 
modern    stage,    for   I   have    been    rather    concerned    in 
endeavouring    to    dissipate   certain    fallacies    that    cling 
round  the  questions  of  the  status  of  the  actor's  art  and 
the   general   worthiness  of    his   calling;    of  the   present 
state  of  that  art,  of  its  advance  in  some  directions,  its 
retrogression  in  others,  of  its  hopes  and  prospects  in  the 
future  I  have  not  spoken  ;  there  are  others  better  fitted 
to  do  so  than  myself.     But  I  hope  that  any  actor,  how- 
ever humble  his  position  or  modest  his  achievement,  has 
the   right  to   uphold  the  dignity  of  the    art   which   he 
pursues.     There   is    no    question    that,    though    greatly 
diminished  in  extent  and  power  of  recent  years,  there  still 
exists  a  feeling  of  hostility  on  the  part  of  certain  classes 
of  men  against  the  art  and  calling  of  the  actor.     Though 
these  feelings  are,  no  doubt,  shared  to  some  extent,  even 
by  a  certain  number  of  men  of  intellectual  distinction,  I 
believe  them  to  be,  for  the  most  part,  the  outcome   of 
ignorance  of  the  real  nature  of  the  art  and  the  real  con- 
ditions of  the  calling.     The  best  proof,  to  my  mind,  that 
they  are  not  rooted  in  truth  and  justice  is  the  fact  that 
the   numbers  of  those  who  hold   them  are  steadily  de- 
creasing,  and  that   the   position    of  the   actor  has  been 
advanced  in  this  country  to  a  higher  level  than  in  any  other 
country  in  the  world. 


Colley  Gibber's  "Apology 


91 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   APOLOGY* 

A  WRITER  in  the  St.  James's  Gazette  has  said  that  if  a 
conspiracy  of  silence  could  be  arranged  by  which  the 
theatrical  world — players,  play-makers,  and  play-critics — 
were,  like  the  good  little  boy,  seen  and  not  heard  of  for 
a  while,  the  rest  of  humanity  would  gain  immeasurably, 
while  the  stage  and  the  drama  would  certainly  not  lose. 
Indeed,  it  seems  almost  impossible  to  open  any  newspaper 
or  review  without  lighting  on  criticisms,  reflections,  stric- 
tures— mostly  strictures — on  the  condition  of  the  drama, 
the  poverty  of  our  dramatists,  the  unfitness  of  our  actors, 
the  vulgarity  of  the  public  taste.  Wise  and  unwise  utter- 
ances, some  earnest  and  impartial,  some  bearing  all  the 
marks  of  spleen  and  disappointment,  meet  one  at  every 
turn,  all  proceeding  from  those  advisers,  professional  and 
unprofessional,  who,  ever  since  the  theatre  began  to  have 
a  history,  have  been  gathered  round  the  bed  of  the  sick 
drama,  which,  however,  in  spite  of  the  many  remedies  that 
are  being  perpetually  administered  to  it,  continues  to  live 
after  its  own  fashion,  really  far  less  hindered  than  might 
be  supposed  by  the  attentions  showered  upon  it  by  well- 
meaning  outsiders.  The  extraordinary  and  in  no  way 
diminishing  hold  that  the  theatre  has  ever  had  on  the 
popular  imagination — an  overflowing  measure  of  popu- 
larity which  is  the  lasting  despair  of  its  enemies  and 
detractors — will  always  expose  it  to  a  great  deal  of  what 

1  Read  before  the  members  of  the  O.  P.  Club,  April  24th,  1904, 
and  reprinted  from  The  Nineteenth  Century, 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY'1 

one  cannot  at  times  help  feeling  to  be  rather  unnecessary 
interference  from  promiscuous  persons,  eager  to  catch  the 
public  ear  by  dealing  with  a  topic  irresistibly  attractive  to 
the  general  run  of  mankind.  Such  interference  must  be 
patiently  endured  as  springing  from  the  nature  of  things. 
At  the  same  time,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  wiser, 
more  dignified,  in  those  whose  business  in  life  it  is  to  write 
for,  or  to  act  on  the  stage,  to  refrain  from  taking  part  in 
discussions  of  this  kind ;  their  work  will  speak  for  them 
with  far  greater  eloquence  than  their  words ;  and  if  they 
have  complaints  to  make  about  the  present  conditions 
under  which  they  are  called  upon  to  do  their  work,  let 
them  set  about  remedying  these  ills  from  within,  by  deeds, 
not  words,  by  practical  assistance  instead  of  the  public 
airing  of  grievances  that  may  interest  and  amuse  the 
public  but  will  never  become  to  them  matters  of  real 
concern. 

I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  lend  your  consideration  for  a 
short  space  to  a  book — little  known,  indeed,  to  the  ordinary 
reader,  little  known,  I  have  no  doubt,  at  the  present  day 
to  many  actors,  authors,  and  critics ;  a  work  not  only 
highly  edifying  and  instructive  to  those  interested  in  the 
theatre,  but  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  entertaining 
autobiographies  in  our  language ;  a  book  that  Dean  Swift 
found  it  impossible  to  lay  down,  that  Horace  Walpole 
declared  to  be  u  inimitable,"  and  that  is  to-day  as  fresh,  as 
true,  and  as  pungent  in  many  of  its  reflections  and  sugges- 
tions as  it  was  in  its  author's  day. 

The  man  who  wrote  this  book — this  Apology  for  his 
Life,  as  he  called  it — may  be  accounted,  if  not  one  of  the 
great  figures  in  the  history  of  our  actors,  at  least  one  of 
the  most  conspicuous ;  the  most  lively,  irrepressible,  and 
good-humoured  of  those  who  as  actor,  author,  and  manager 
have  served  the  theatre.  For  over  forty  of  the  eighty-six 
years  of  his  life  Colley  Gibber  was  a  busy  actor ;  for  more 
than  twenty  of  these  years  a  successful  manager;  and 

94 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "  APOLOGY  v 

during  that  time  the  author  of  some  thirty  comedies, 
tragedies,  farces,  adaptations,  and  personal  interludes,  all 
more  or  less  successful ;  he  was,  moreover,  for  the  last 
twenty-seven  years  of  his  life,  one  of  the  worst  of  our  many 
indifferent  Poets  laureate — a  record  which  for  activity,  for 
quantity,  if  not  quality  of  work,  may  stand  alongside  with 
those  of  Shakespeare  and  Garrick.  Pert,  foppish,  vain 
and  affected,  loving  the  society  of  persons  of  quality,  light 
in  his  morals,  Colley  Gibber  was  at  the  same  time  an 
honest,  hard-working  actor,  proud  of  his  calling,  conscious 
of  the  abuses  to  which  the  theatre  of  his  day  was  subject, 
and  doing  his  best,  when  occasion  offered,  to  mend  them  : 
a  straightforward  and  fair-dealing  manager,  a  shrewd  and 
sensible  man  of  the  world,  a  good-humoured  but  dangerous 
adversary,  as  Pope  and  Fielding  found  to  their  cost ;  above 
all,  not  a  dull  man,  as  Pope,  goaded  to  madness  by  the 
merited,  if  indecorous,  retort  that  Gibber  made  to  the 
poet's  insult,  would  have  had  posterity  believe  when 
he  deposed  Theobald  to  make  Gibber  the  hero  of 
The  Dunciad. 

Of  Gibber's  dramatic  works  not  one,  if  we  except  his 
adaptation  of  Richard  III.,  now  rarely  played,  holds  the 
stage  in  the  present  day.  His  comedies  were  written  to 
please  the  taste  of  his  time,  and  often  to  furnish  himself 
with  the  kind  of  parts  in  which  the  public  delighted  to 
see  him  :  these  were  light,  comic  characters,  chiefly  of  the 
order  of  fops,  "  coxcombs  and  men  of  fashion,'1  old  and 
young.  In  his  playing  of  these  parts,  in  dress,  deport- 
ment, and  manner,  he  was  a  model  to  the  beaux  of  his 
day.  He  would  have  loved  to  have  been  accepted  as  a 
tragedian,  in  spite  of  his  weak  voice  and  insignificant 
appearance  ;  but  he  was  wise  enough  to  recognise  wherein 
his  real  excellence  lay,  and  when  he  did  essay  tragedy,  to 
content  himself  with  such  characters  as  Richard  III.  and 
lago,  in  which  there  was  less  call  for  harmony  of  voice  and 
majesty  of  bearing  than  in  the  Hamlets  and  Othellos.  A 

95 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY" 

further  reason  he  gives  us  for  his  choice  of  these  parts — 
and  his  reasons  in  this  instance  smack  somewhat  of  excuses 
— is  that  your  villains  are  generally  "  better  written, 
thicker  sown  with  sensible  reflections,  and  come  so  much 
nearer  to  common  life  and  nature  than  characters  of 
admiration,  as  vice  is  more  the  practice  of  mankind  than 
virtue.""  Be  this  as  it  may,  there  seems  little  doubt  that 
Justice  Shallow,  in  which  he  would  appear  to  have  been 
inimitable,  and  not  lago  or  Richard,  would  have  been 
Shakespeare's  measure  of  Gibber's  quality  as  a  player. 

As  a  poet,  and  as  laureate,  Gibber  was  the  laughing- 
stock of  his  contemporaries :  it  pleased  his  vanity  to  think 
his  odes  superior  to  those  of  Pindar,  but  it  is  hardly  too 
much  to  say  that,  in  the  twenty-seven  years  during  which 
he  composed  lyrics,  he  did  not  write  one  good  line.  In 
literature  he  lives  by  his  Apology,  and  by  his  Apology 
alone.  Though  its  style  is  often  incorrect  and  affected, 
and  he  makes  at  times  curiously  simple  blunders,  it  has, 
what  no  style  is  of  any  value  if  it  lack,  character.  The 
reader  will  find  in  its  pages  no  little  wit,  no  little  know- 
ledge of  human  nature,  the  ripe  experience  of  a  life 
spent  in  humouring  successfully  the  whims  and  tempers  of 
artistic  colleagues,  quaint  and  happy  turns  of  expression, 
much  lively  description,  a  good  deal  of  self-revelation,  and 
the  healthy,  active  spirit  of  the  busy,  tireless  man  to  whom 
Horace  Wai  pole,  on  meeting  him  when  he  had  already 
passed  his  eighty  years,  exclaimed,  "  I  am  glad,  sir,  to  see 
you  looking  so  well."  "  Egad,  sir,""  replied  the  veteran, 
"  at  eighty-four  it  is  well  for  a  man  that  he  can  look 
at  all." 

Gibber  went  on  the  stage  in  the  year  1690,  being  then 
nineteen  years  of  age.  His  father  was  a  sculptor  of  some 
note  ;  his  mother  belonged  to  an  old  Rutlandshire  family, 
her  grandfather,  Sir  Anthony  Colley,  having  ruined  him- 
self in  the  cause  of  King  Charles  I.  His  father  had  hoped 
to  have  made  a  parson  or  a  soldier  of  Colley,  but,  for 

96 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY1 

various  reasons,  these  plans  miscarried,  to  the  secret  joy  of 
the  son,  who  had  only  entered  the  theatre  to  be  at  once 
possessed  with  that  strange  and  invincible  fascination  it 
exercises  alike  over  the  capable  and  the  incapable. 

To  be  an  actor  instead  of  a  clergyman  or  a  soldier  was, 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  no  small  sacrifice  to  make  in 
the  cause  of  dramatic  art.  Gibber  sets  forth  very  fairly 
the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  the  profession  in  his 
own  day,  and  tells  one  or  two  anecdotes  of  the  ill  repute 
in  which  the  theatre  was  then  held.  He  cites  a  moving 
tale  of  a  lady  of  real  title  whose  "  female  indiscretions  had 
occasioned  her  family  to  abandon  her."  The  unfortunate 
lady,  anxious  to  make  an  honest  penny  out  of  what  beauty 
she  had  left,  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage.  Her  family,  hearing 
of  this,  advised  the  managers  of  the  theatre  not  to  engage 
her,  and  they,  unwilling  "  to  make  an  honourable  family 
their  unnecessary  enemies,"  felt  constrained  to  decline  her 
services.  Gibber  laments  over  the  hard  case  of  the  lady, 
who  found  herself  denied  by  prejudice  the  means  of  earn- 
ing an  honest  living.  And  he  is  no  doubt  just  in  his 
reflection.  At  the  same  time  it  seems  doubtful  whether  the 
modern  stage  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  the  fact  that 
recruits  of  this  kind  will  in  our  own  day  find  little  diffi- 
culty in  swelling  at  any  time  the  ranks  of  the  incompetent. 

A  more  serious  instance  of  the  ignominious  treatment 
which  actors  were  liable  to  suffer  is  that  of  Mr.  William 
Smith,  a  barrister  turned  actor,  a  man  of  high  moral 
character  and  very  popular  with  people  of  rank.  A 
gentleman  having  grossly  insulted  Smith  behind  the 
scenes,  was  dismissed  the  court  by  King  James  II.,  who 
was  a  great  admirer  of  the  actor.  The  courtly  gentleman 
revenged  himself  upon  the  player  by  having  him  so  soundly 
hooted  at  his  next  appearance  that  Smith  withdrew  for  a 
time  from  the  stage.  But  the  actor  showed  his  gratitude 
to  the  king  by  joining  his  army  as  a  volunteer  on  the 
landing  of  William  of  Orange. 

97  H 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY" 

Certainly  Smith's  experience,  coupled  with  other  stories 
of  the  insolence  that  characterised  the  attitude  of  many 
so-called  gentlemen  in  the  playhouse,  arouses  indignation 
in  the  mind  of  any  man ;  but  at  the  same  time  we  must 
remember  that  there  were  good  reasons  in  1690  why  the 
stage  should  be  regarded  by  respectable  persons  with  some 
disfavour,  and  actors  should  find  it  difficult  to  uphold  their 
right  to  common  consideration.  In  the  first  place,  the 
gross  indecency  of  the  plays  performed — an  indecency 
which  in  1698  inspired  Jeremy  Collier's  extravagant 
denunciation  of  the  theatre — degraded  the  actor's  occupa- 
tion ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  the  familiarity  that  existed 
between  the  actor  and  his  audience  seriously  diminished 
the  independence  of  the  artist.  The  very  conditions  under 
which  he  acted,  the  wings  crowded  with  gentlemen  who 
had  the  run  of  the  stage-door  ("  those  buzzing  mosquitoes 
who'  took  their  stand  where  they  might  best  elbow  the 
actor  and  come  in  for  their  share  of  the  auditor's  atten- 
tion "),  the  audience  often  noisy  and  intractable — such 
conditions  as  these  were  hardly  calculated  to  inspire  respect 
for  the  art  of  the  player.  Again,  the  kind  of  happy 
family  feeling  that  naturally  sprang  up  between  actors 
and  audience  when  two  theatres  at  most  were  sufficient 
for  the  needs  of  no  doubt  a  very  limited  number  of  play- 
goers, had  its  inconveniences.  A  modest  expression  coming 
from  the  mouth  of  some  admirable  artist  of  more  or  less 
doubtful  reputation,  was  apt  to  provoke  "  fleers  from  the 
witlings  of  the  pit."  As  a  consequence  of  the  sensitiveness 
provoked  by  such  impertinences,  Gibber  gives  an  instance 
— indeed,  an  extraordinary  instance — of  an  actress  who, 
conscious  that  beauty  was  not  her  strong  point,  desired 
that  the  warmth  of  some  lines  she  had  to  speak  empha- 
sising her  personal  beauty  might  be  abated ;  but  he  adds, 
"  in  this  discretion  she  was  alone ;  few  others  were  afraid 
of  undeserving  the  finest  things  that  could  be  said  of 
them."  One  actress,  a  Mrs.  Rogers,  justly  proud  of  her 

98 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY" 

virtue,  was  in  the  habit  of  announcing  it  to  the  public. 
In  an  epilogue  to  an  obscure  play  in  which  she  acted  a 
part  of  impregjiable  chastity,  she  bespoke  the  favour  of 
the  ladies  in  the  audience  by  protesting  that,  in  honour 
of  their  goodness  and  virtue,  she  would  dedicate  her  un- 
blemished life  to  their  example  : 

I'll  copy  you ; 

At  your  own  virtue's  shrine  my  vows  I'll  pay, 
Study  to  live  the  character  I  play. 

That  in  her  subsequent  career  she  forgot  her  vow,  only 
shows  how  much  wiser  Mrs.  Rogers  would  have  been 
to  have  let  the  subject  alone. 

If  the  treatment  accorded  to  the  actors  in  Gibber's  day 
was  often  familiar  and  impertinent,  that  of  authors  was  far 
worse.  Gibber,  himself  be  it  remembered,  a  popular  author, 
complains  bitterly  of  the  severity  and  impatience  of  the 
audiences  in  their  reception  of  a  new  play.  "  The  vivacity 
of  our  modern  critics  is  of  late  grown  so  riotous  that  an 
unsuccessful  author  has  no  more  mercy  shown  him  than 
a  notorious  cheat  in  a  pillory ;  every  fool,  the  lowest 
member  of  the  mob,  becomes  a  wit,  and  will  have  a  fling 
at  him.  They  come  now  to  a  new  play  like  hounds  to  a 
carcase,  and  are  all  in  a  full  cry,  sometimes  for  an  hour 
together,  before  the  curtain  rises,  to  throw  it  amongst 
them.  ...  In  a  word,"  he  concludes,  "this  new  race  of 
critics  seem  to  me  like  the  lion-whelps  in  the  Tower,  who 
are  so  boisterously  gamesome  at  their  meals,  that  they 
dash  down  the  bowls  of  milk  brought  for  their  own  break- 
fast." We  must  be  thankful  indeed  that  to-day  the  bowls 
of  milk  are  at  least  consumed  in  quiet  before  the  young 
lions  pass  judgment  on  their  fare. 

Whilst  Gibber  enumerates  those  peculiar  disadvantages 
attaching  to  the  calling  of  an  actor  in  the  late  years  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  he  sets  against  them  certain  compen- 
sations. Apart  from  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  exercise 

99 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY1 

of  an  art  in  which,  as  he  quaintly  phrases  it,  "to  excel 
requires  as  ample  endowments  of  nature  as  any  one  pro- 
fession (that  of  holy  institution  excepted),"  he  notices  the 
fact  that  if  an  actor  excel  in  his  profession,  he  will  be 
received  among  people  of  condition  with  a  social  distinction 
to  which  he  would  never  have  attained  had  he  followed  the 
most  profitable  pursuits  of  trade  ;  and  he  cites  Betterton, 
Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  Nance  Oldfield,  and  others  as  instances  of 
those  thus  distinguished.  Let  us  suppose,  he  adds,  that 
these  men  had  been  eminent  mercers  and  the  women 
famous  milliners,  can  we  imagine  that  merely  as  such, 
though  endowed  with  the  same  natural  understanding, 
they  would  have  been  called  into  the  same  honourable 
parties  of  conversation  in  which,  he  affirms,  these  actors 
and  actresses  were  capable  of  sustaining  their  part  with 
spirit  and  variety,  though  the  stage  were  never  the  subject 
of  discussion  ?  Gibber  here  touches  very  happily  on  one  of 
the  principal  causes  of  the  vulgar  resentment  cherished  by 
the  mercers  and  milliners  of  different  ages  against  a  calling 
which  religious  prejudice  has  taught  them  to  despise,  but 
which  they  find  to  their  astonishment  encouraged  and 
courted  by  their  social  superiors — a  confusion  of  ideas 
that  in  dull  capacities  aggravates  rather  than  allays 
resentment. 

He  takes,  too,  an  opportunity  of  administering — almost 
contemporaneously  with  Voltaire — a  well-deserved  rebuke 
to  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  for  its  treatment  of  actors, 
which  was  in  his  day  one  of  the  least  charitable  and 
amiable  features  of  that  religion.  He  hits  the  nail  on  the 
head,  as  Gibber  often  does,  when  he  remarks  that,  in  many 
countries  where  the  Papal  religion  prevails,  the  holy  policy, 
though  it  allows  not  an  actor  Christian  burial,  is  so  con- 
scious of  the  usefulness  of  his  art,  that  it  will  frequently 
take  in  the  assistance  of  the  theatre  to  recommend  sacred 
history  to  the  more  pathetic  regard  of  the  people.  How 
then,  he  asks,  can  they  refuse  an  actor  Christian  burial 

100 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S  "APOLOGY11 

when  they  admit  his  profession  to  serve  the  solemn  pur- 
poses of  religion  ?  How  far,  he  asks,  is  such  inhumanity 
short  of  that  famous  painter's  who,  to  make  his  crucifix  a 
masterpiece  of  nature,  stabbed  the  innocent  hireling  from 
whose  body  he  drew  it,  and  having  heightened  the  holy 
portrait  with  his  victim's  last  agonies  of  life,  sent  the 
picture  to  serve  as  the  consecrated  ornament  of  an  altar  ? 
Never  was  a  cruel  prejudice  more  thoroughly  and  trench- 
antly exposed.  Happily  such  prejudice  is  for  the  most 
part  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  there  are  now  few  religious 
bodies  of  any  denomination  that  will  not  gladly  accept  the 
gladly-given  services  of  actors  and  actresses  in  support 
of  their  charitable  undertakings. 

But,  even  since  Gibber  wrote,  traces  of  such  prejudice, 
though  in  a  more  obscure  form,  are  to  be  met  with. 
A  recent  writer,  I  believe  a  Roman  Catholic,  in  a  historical 
monograph  on  "  Robespierre,"  an  admirable  and  picturesque, 
if  at  times  histrionic,  biography,  misses  no  opportunity  of 
insulting  a  profession  of  which  he  in  all  probability  knows 
nothing,  and  allows  his  prejudice — at  least,  so  it  appears — 
to  betray  him  into  the  most  singular  inaccuracy.  The 
violent  and  eccentric  conduct  of  Tallien,  the  conventionalist 
and  contemporary  of  Robespierre,  he  appears  to  explain  and 
justify  throughout  by  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  comedian, 
an  actor.  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  what  evidence 
he  can  produce  that  Tallien  was  ever  an  actor  ?  Is  he  not 
thinking  of  Collot  d'Herbois  ?  And  if  Tallien  were  an 
actor  and  did  flourish  a  dagger  at  Robespierre  in  the 
Convention,  a  piece  of  "  actor's  foolery,"  as  he  describes  it, 
what,  pray,  of  Edmund  Burke  and  the  Birmingham  dagger 
he  flourished  in  the  House  of  Commons?  If  the  writer 
means  to  imply  that  Tallien  was  an  actor — and  it  certainly 
reads  as  if  he  did — then  he  is  incorrect ;  if  he  means  that 
his  conduct  in  flourishing  a  dagger  in  the  Convention,  in 
shedding  blood  in  Bordeaux,  in  lounging  in  drawing-rooms 
and  posing  as  a  southern  voluptuary  was  the  conduct  of 

101 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   "  APOLOGY  r 

an  actor,  then  he  is  not  only  incorrect  but  unjust  and 
offensive  into  the  bargain. 

When  the  actor  has  recovered  from  his  astonishment  at 
such  gratuitous  flouts,  Gibber  opportunely  reminds  him 
that  we  actors  can  claim  a  canonised  saint  in  the  Roman 
Martyrology,  one  Masculas,  master  of  interludes,  put  to 
death  by  Genseric  the  Vandal,  with  great  torment  and 
reproach,  for  confession  of  the  truth  ;  from  which  and  other 
instances,  such  as  the  fact  that  some  ten  noted  actors  took  up 
arms  for  King  Charles  I.  when  the  Civil  War  shut  the  theatres, 
Cibber  concludes  that  "  that  there  have  been  players  of 
worthy  principles  as  to  religion,  loyalty,  and  other  virtues ; 
and  if  the  major  part  of  them  fall  under  a  different 
character,  it  is  the  general  unhappiness  of  mankind  that 
the  most  are  the  worst."  One  would  hardly  dwell  on  facts 
of  this  kind,  were  it  not  for  the  amazing  ignorance  that  is 
at  the  bottom  of  the  dregs  of  prejudice  that  still  survive 
against  the  theatre,  and  that  one  sees  so  egregiously  dis- 
played whenever  some  newspaper,  reverting  to  a  topic  that 
always  "  draws,""  opens  its  columns  to  the  lucubrations  of 
the  descendants  of  the  dismal  Prynne  and  the  intemperate 
Collier.  Colley  Cibber  should  always  at  such  seasons  be 
referred  to  as  a  wholesome  antidote  to  the  doldrums  and 
megrims  of  those  who  can  neither  find  nor  permit  satisfac- 
tion in  what  he  very  justly  describes  as  "  the  most  rational 
scheme  that  human  wit  can  form  to  dissipate  with 
innocence  the  cares  of  life,  to  allure  even  the  turbulent  or 
ill-disposed  from  worse  meditations,  and  to  give  the  leisure 
hours  of  business  and  virtue  an  instructive  recreation." 

For  twenty  years  Cibber  remained  a  salaried  actor, 
playing  for  the  most  part  at  Drury  Lane  under  the 
management  of  Christopher  Rich.  He  commenced  work 
at  a  salary  of  ten  shillings  a  week,  which  just  before  he 
went  into  management  had  risen  to  the  then  considerable 
sum  of  riP5  a  week.  This,  with  his  benefit,  brought  him  in 
some  <£J162  for  the  year  1708 — 1709,  the  largest  sum  made 

102 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY11 

by  any  actor  in  the  company  that  year  being  ^259,  earned 
by  the  popular  and  industrious  Wilks,  who  added  to  his 
playing  the  duties  of  stage  manager.  The  story  of  Gibber's 
first  salary  is  interesting.  Hanging  about  the  wings  wait- 
ing for  employment  Master  Colley,  as  he  was  called  by  his 
familiars,  was  sent  on  to  the  stage  in  the  part  of  a 
messenger  charged  to  deliver  his  message  to  the  great 
actor,  Thomas  Betterton,  perhaps  the  noblest  figure  in  the 
recorded  annals  of  our  players,  a  man  whose  pre-eminent 
artistic  and  moral  excellence  made  him  in  his  day  the  un- 
questioned leader  of  his  profession  and  won  the  respect  and 
admiration  of  such  various  beholders  as  Steele,  Pope, 
and  Gibber.  If  his  artistic  genius  was  surpassed  by  Garrick 
and  Kean,  they  neither  of  them  could  inspire  that  personal 
affection  and  regard  that  the  generous,  simple  nature  of 
Betterton  extorted  from  his  contemporaries.  To  this 
commanding  actor  entered  Master  Colley  with  his  message, 
but  so  appalled  was  he  to  find  himself  in  the  presence  of 
the  great  tragedian,  that  he  forgot  entirely  message  and 
everything.  Betterton,  annoyed  at  his  confusion,  asked 
his  name.  "  Master  Colley ! "  replied  the  prompter. 
"  Then  forfeit  him  !  "  "  But,"  urged  the  prompter,  "  he 
has  no  salary."  "  No,"  replied  Betterton,  "  then  put  him 
down  ten  shillings  a  week,  and  forfeit  five !  "  This  ten 
shillings,  so  pleasantly  earned  by  Gibber,  was  shortly  after 
raised  to  twenty  on  the  recommendation  of  Congreve,  the 
author,  and  then  to  thirty  shillings  on  the  secession  of 
Betterton  and  other  of  Mr.  Rich's  discontented  actors. 

It  was  little  wonder  that  actors  who  could  afford  to 
quarrel  soon  quitted  a  theatre  of  which  Mr.  Christopher 
Rich  was  the  chief  director.  Gibber's  sketch  of  this 
seventeenth-century  manager  is  one  of  his  happiest.  The 
great  art  of  Mr.  Rich  as  a  manager  seems  to  have  been  to 
do  his  actors  out  of  as  much  of  their  salary  as  he  con- 
veniently could.  He  was  as  sly  a  tyrant,  says  Gibber,  as 
ever  was  at  the  head  of  a  theatre  ;  for  he  gave  the  actors 

103 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S  "  APOLOGY  " 

more  liberty  and  fewer  days1  pay  than  any  of  his  pre- 
decessors ;  he  would  laugh  with  them  over  a  bottle  and 
bite  them  in  their  bargains.  He  would  judge  the  merit  of 
a  leading  actor  by  his  ability  to  keep  the  other  actors 
quiet  when  they  had  gone  six  weeks  without  any  salary.  He 
was  always  promising  his  actors  what  he  was  pleased  to 
term  "arrears,""  but  in  fifteen  years  Gibber  declares  he 
never  received  more  than  nine  days1  of  them.  The  actors 
in  Rich's  day  were  paid  by  shares  of  the  profits,  ten  going 
to  the  management,  ten  to  the  actors ;  but  Rich  so  con- 
trived it — he  had  been  a  lawyer — that  "  the  actors  were 
limited  sharers  of  loss,  and  he  the  sole  proprietor  of 
profits.'"  Much  criticism  is  expended  on  our  actor-managers 
of  to-day,  but  it  is  only  fair  to  record  in  their  favour  that 
it  was  not  until  Gibber,  Wilks,  and  Dogget,  three  actors, 
took  over  Drury  Lane  in  1710  and  entered  on  their  twenty 
years  of  successful  management,  that  a  theatre  was  once 
again  honestly  and  decently  administered.  It  is  with 
justifiable  pride  that  Gibber  tells  us  that,  in  the  twenty 
years  of  his  management,  he  never  had  a  creditor  that  had 
occasion  to  come  twice  for  his  bill,  that  every  Monday 
morning  discharged  us  of  all  demands  before  we  took  a 
shilling  for  our  own  use  :  "  we  never  asked  any  actor,  nor 
were  desired  by  them,  to  sign  any  written  agreement  what- 
soever.11 As  he  truly  says,  "  Our  being  actors  ourselves 
was  an  advantage  to  our  government,  which  all  former 
managers  who  were  only  idle  gentlemen  wanted.11 

Among  the  many  reforms  introduced  by  Gibber  was  the 
closing  of  the  stage-door  to  the  idle  gentlemen  who  were 
accustomed  to  haunt  the  wings  of  the  theatre  and  elbow 
the  actor  during  his  performance  ;  and  in  this  regard  he 
shrewdly  touches  on  the  inadvisability  of  actors  making 
themselves  cheap,  and  allowing  the  curious  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  that  should  to  some  extent  shroud  the  practice  of 
their  calling — a  mystery  which  it  is,  alas  !  to-day  almost 
impossible  to  preserve.  ;'  In  admitting  these  gentlemen 

104 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "  APOLOGY  r 

behind  the  scenes,"  says  Gibber,  "we  too  often  showed 
them  the  wrong  side  of  our  tapestry,  and  many  a  tolerable 
actor  was  the  less  valued  when  it  was  known  what  ordinary 
stuff  he  was  made  of." 

Gibber  and  his  colleagues  had  their  share  of  good 
fortune.  It  is  not  often  that  the  author  of  a  successful 
play  foregoes  his  fees,  yet  such  was  the  case  with  Addison 
when  he  presented  Cato,  free  of  encumbrance,  to  the  man- 
agers of  Drury  Lane.  Cato  was  perhaps  the  greatest 
triumph  of  the  Gibber  management.  Its  production  was 
the  occasion  of  intense  excitement,  both  in  the  literary  and 
political  world.  Pope  wrote  a  prologue  for  it,  Garth  an 
epilogue ;  Swift  came  to  the  rehearsals  and,  not  being 
accustomed  to  the  ways  of  rehearsal,  was  very  much 
astonished  to  hear  the  "  drab  that  acts  Gate's  daughter '" 
stopping  in  the  midst  of  a  passionate  part  to  call  out  to  the 
prompter,  "  What's  next  ?  "  By  the  term  "  drab  "  Swift 
is  describing  the  brilliant  Mrs.  Oldfield,  from  whom,  said 
Horace  Walpole,  no  bad  judge,  women  of  the  first  rank 
might  have  learnt  behaviour,  and  whose  morality  was 
sufficiently  respectable  to  allow  of  her  interment  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  Had  Swift  been  versed  in  the  conditions 
of  an  art  the  ignorance  of  which  seems  to  many  a  literary 
critic  the  highest  qualification  for  depreciating  the  art 
itself,  he  might  have  known  that  imperfection  at  rehearsal 
is  sometimes  the  privilege  of  genius  and  no  criterion  of  the 
achievement  of  the  first  night.  It  must  be  indeed  a  warped 
or  unthinking  prejudice  that  makes  Pope  incarnate  dulness 
in  the  person  of  the  lively  Gibber,  and  Swift  style  the  elegant 
and  accomplished  Mrs.  Oldfield  a  drab. 

But  to-day,  whatever  the  fate  of  our  actors,  our 
actresses  seem  to  be  in  no  danger  of  such  rude  deprecia- 
tion as  Swift  treated  them  to,  in  the  person  of  Mrs. 
Oldfield  ;  no  "  drabs  "  from  the  Dean  are  likely  to  affront 
them ;  they  must  rather  be  on  their  guard  lest  they 
be  lured  to  ruin  by  the  subtle  flattery  of  specious 

105 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY" 

wooers.  Mr.  Walkley,  the  accomplished  critic  of  The 
Times,  most  subtle  and  most  specious,  openly  courts  their 
favours  at  the  Royal  Institution  and  the  Playgoers1  Club  ; 
he  tells  these  ladies  that,  while  we  actors  are  something 
rather  less  than  men,  impaired  citizens — in  the  words  of 
Henley,  neither  masters  of  our  fates  nor  captains  of  our 
souls — like,  as  I  venture  to  think,  the  barrister  and  the 
novelist,  dealers  in  emotions  not  our  own,  states  of  feeling, 
portrayals  of  character  not  our  own  ;  our  actresses,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  something  more  than  women  ;  the  practice 
of  their  art  induces  a  sublimation  of  their  sex  until  they 
pass  to  something  beyond  it,  whether  in  the  direction  of 
greater  masculinity  or  some  more  ethereal  class  of  being, 
whether  they  put  on  the  wings  of  angels  or  develop  the 
thews  of  men,  I  have  never  quite  been  able  to  understand. 
But  in  any  case  I  would  venture  to  warn  these  ladies 
against  this  apparently  artless  wooer.  Beware  this  gay 
and  debonair  suitor !  Beware  lest  he  be  merely  piping 
you  on  to  ruin,  until  when  you  fall  at  his  feet  prostrate 
with  praise,  worshipping  this  unexpected  deliverer,  he  turn 
upon  you,  and  with  the  vfipis  of  the  young  Greek,  the 
insouciance  of  the  flippant  Gaul,  spurn  your  advances, 
and  show  you  that,  in  becoming  more  than  women,  you 
have  been  transformed  into  some  unattractive  and  un- 
natural cross  between  a  Gorgon  and  a  mermaid.  I,  for  my 
part,  mistrust  these  dulcet  attempts  to  lure  our  damsels 
from  the  fold.  We  actors  must  stand  together,  lest  our 
women  be  torn  from  our  unmanly  arms  and  handed  over 
to  the  more  virile  protection  of  full  citizens,  complete 
masters  of  their  fate,  perfect  captains  of  their  souls. 

The  first  performance  of  Cato  under  Gibber's  manage- 
ment was  wildly  successful.  Addison,  nervous  and  excited, 
sat  in  a  box  with  Berkeley,  the  philosopher,  fortifying  his 
spirits  with  burgundy  and  champagne.  Political  feeling 
had  been  stirred  by  rumours  of  the  play  being  a  covert 
attack  on  the  Tory  Government ;  but  that  seemed  only  to 

106 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S  « APOLOGY  v 

make  the  approval  of  the  audience  the  more  unanimous  ; 
for  the  Whigs  applauded  vociferously  what  they  considered 
a  Whig  play,  whilst  the  Tories  applauded  no  less  vocifer- 
ously to  show  that  it  was  not.  Lord  Bolingbroke,  then 
Secretary  of  State,  called  Booth,  who  played  Cato,  into 
his  box  and  presented  him  with  fifty  guineas  for  his  honest 
opposition  to  a  perpetual  dictator,  otherwise  the  Whig 
Duke  of  Marlborough ;  whereupon  the  Whigs  vowed  that 
they  also  would  get  up  a  subscription  of  fifty  guineas  to 
present  to  Booth,  to  show  their  appreciation  of  his  services 
to  the  Whig  dramatist,  Addison.  But  history  does  not 
relate  whether  the  fortunate  tragedian  ever  received  this 
second  dole ;  he  may  well  have  been  content  with  the  first. 
The  play  on  its  first  production  ran  for  thirty-five  nights, 
an  unexempled  record  in  those  days.  This  long  run  was 
followed  by  a  visit  of  the  actors  to  Oxford,  and  in  this 
connection  Gibber  sheds  a  pleasing  light  on  his  managerial 
ways.  It  had  been  the  custom  for  the  actors  when  at 
Oxford  to  play  twice  a  day,  and,  as  in  those  days  there 
were  no  half  salaries  for  matinees,  they  consequently 
received  double  pay.  But  on  this  occasion,  as  the  Oxford 
theatre  had  been  enlarged  and  the  London  season  so 
successful,  the  managers,  anxious  to  keep  their  players 
fresh  and  make  the  visit  pleasant  and  profitable  to  the 
rest  of  their  society,  whilst  only  giving  one  performance 
in  the  dav,  paid  the  actors  the  usual  double  salary ;  and 
they  were  no  losers  by  their  generosity.  The  visit  was 
both  pleasant  and  profitable ;  the  three  performances  of 
Cato  were  witnessed  by  overflowing  audiences.  Gibber's 
criticism  of  the  respective  quality  of  the  London  and 
Oxford  audience  is  instructive.  "A  great  deal,"  he  writes, 
"  of  that  false,  flashy  wit  and  forced  humour  which  had 
been  the  delight  of  our  metropolitan  multitude,  was  only 
rated  there  (at  Oxford)  at  its  bare,  intrinsic  value."  Here, 
he  tells  us,  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  inspired  as  deep 
a  reverence  as  the  Ethics  of  Aristotle  ;  from  which  account 

107 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S  "  APOLOGY  r 

we  may  gather  that  whilst  Cato  was  received  with 
enthusiasm,  the  up-to-date  fashionable  London  comedies, 
some  of  them  no  doubt  Gibber's  own,  fell  rather  flat.  Such 
was  the  Oxford  of  1713.  In  the  Oxford  of  1904,  whilst  we 
have  no  doubt  that  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  still  inspire 
the  same  reverence  as  the  Ethics  of  Aristotle,  our  only  fear 
is  lest  that  reverence  become  an  awful  regard,  too  solemn 
to  brook  the  rough  intrusion  of  dramatic  representation. 

This  was  a  great  year,  this  1713,  to  Gibber,  Wilks,  and 
Dogget ;  at  the  end  of  the  season,  when  all  expenses  had 
been  paid,  they  found  themselves  the  proud  possessors  of 
^1,500  apiece.  They  left  Oxford  honoured  with  the 
thanks  of  the  Vice-Chancellor  for  the  decency  and  order 
observed  by  their  company,  an  honour  of  which  they 
showed  their  appreciation  by  contributing  fifty  pounds 
to  the  repair  of  St.  Mary's  church. 

Prosperous  as  were  the  years  of  Gibber's  management, 
he  did  not  escape  the  trials  and  anxieties  inseparable  from 
such  a  situation.  The  authors  of  bad  plays  were  a  great 
thorn  in  his  side ;  he  complains  of  their  persecution,  and 
their  indignation  against  the  actors  for  rejecting  the 
abortive  piles  of  poetry  that  they  sought  to  twist  into 
the  likeness  of  a  play.  Who  are  these  actors,  the  indignant 
playwrights  would  exclaim,  to  judge  of  their  merit?  To 
which  Gibber  retorts  by  asking  these  gentlemen  how  they 
can  suppose  that  actors  can  have  risen  to  any  excellence  in 
their  calling  without  feeling  or  understanding  the  value  of 
such  productions  ?  Would  you  have  reduced  them,  he 
asks,  to  the  mere  mimicry  of  parrots  and  monkeys  that 
can  only  prate  and  play  tricks  without  reflection  ?  And 
he  concludes  by  asking  these  gentlemen  authors  the  very 
pertinent  question,  if  neither  Dryden  nor  Congreve,  Steele 
nor  Addison  complained  of  the  actors1  incapacity  to  judge 
a  play,  who  will  believe  that  the  slights  you  have  met  with 
are  undeserved  or  particular  ?  We  can  hardly  wonder  at 
Gibber's  pointed  resentment  against  these  gentlemen  when 

108 


we  recall  the  fact  that  it  was  the  usual  custom  of  the 
unsuccessful  author  of  his  day  to  publish  his  play,  after 
its  failure,  with  a  preface  in  which  the  actors  of  it  were 
roundly  abused  and  charged  with  its  want  of  success. 
What  Gibber  says  of  his  own  day  is  equally  applicable 
to  the  present  time.  I  have  often  known  actors  abused 
by  obscure  and  unsuccessful  authors ;  but  it  is  very  rarely 
that  the  author  of  distinction  finds  fault  publicly  with  his 
players,  even  if  he  have  cause.  Both  author  and  actor  are 
too  well  aware  that  the  balance  of  failure  and  success  will, 
in  the  long  run,  generally  hang  fairly  evenly  between  the 
two  of  them  ;  that  they  are  both  working  in  most  cases  for 
a  common  end,  and  that  recrimination  coming  from  either 
side  is  not  only  undignified  and  useless,  but  is  bound  to  be 
frequently  ill-considered  and  unjust. 

Gibber  narrates  a  pleasing  anecdote  of  one  of  these  fine 
gentlemen,  would-be  authors,  who,  on  the  second  night  of 
the  performance  of  his  poor  play,  came  swaggering  in  fine 
full-bottomed  periwig  into  the  lobby  of  the  theatre  with  a 
lady  of  condition  on  his  arm,  and  called  out  to  the  box- 
keeper  to  direct  him  to  his  seats.  "  Sir,"  replied  Mr.  Trott, 
the  then  box-keeper,  "  we  have  dismissed  the  audience, 
there  was  not  company  enough  to  pay  candles ! "  In 
which  "  mortal  astonishment,"  adds  Gibber,  we  may  leave 
the  worthy  gentleman. 

Another  source  of  constant  trouble  to  the  assiduous 
Colley  were  his  partners  in  management,  and  of  these 
most  especially  Mr.  Robert  Wilks,  their  leading  actor. 
Wilks,  a  man  of  gentle  birth  holding,  before  he  went  on 
the  stage,  a  post  in  the  office  of  the  Irish  Secretary  at 
Dublin,  out  of  which  his  successor  made  some  £50,000, 
was  an  accomplished  actor,  indefatigable  in  his  passion  for 
work,  but  of  a  hasty  and  difficult  temper.  When,  on  the 
death  of  Mountford,  the  famous  light  comedian,  murdered 
by  Lord  Mohun,  he  came  to  London  in  the  hope  of  being 
his  successor,  he  found  that  place  already  fiUed  by  one 

109 


COLLEY   CIBBEITS  "  APOLOGY  r 

George  Powell,  son  of  an  actor,  himself  an  able  but  rough 
and  uncultivated  player,  of  loose  life  and  intemperate 
habits.  The  story  of  the  dethroning  of  Powell  by  Wilks, 
who  certainly,  in  the  opinion  of  the  critics  of  the  day,  h.ul, 
in  comedy,  the  inestimable  advantage  over  his  rival  of  being 
able  to  appear  a  gentleman,  is  the  old  story  of  the  two 
apprentices.  Though  Powell  had  a  better  voice,  a  better 
ear  for  speaking  than  Wilks,  as  excellent  and  tenacious  a 
memory,  and  greater  assurance,  by  an  unheedful  confidence, 
an  over-indulgence  in  Nantz  brandy  and  perpetual  impecuni- 
osity,  he  was  soon  outstripped  by  his  industrious  com- 
petitor, but  not  before  the  spectacle  of  his  intemperance 
had  cured  Barton  Booth  (then  a  young  man)  of  a  love  of 
drink  which  might  have  robbed  the  stage  of  a  remarkably 
fine  actor.  It  is  related  of  poor  Powell,  that  being  in 
constant  apprehension  of  Sheriff's  officers,  he  would  walk 
the  streets  carrying  a  sheathed  sword  in  his  hand,  and  if 
he  sighted  from  afar  a  bailiff,  would  call  out,  "  Get  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way,  you  dog  ! "  to  which  the  bailiff  would 
politely  reply,  "  We  do  not  want  you  7ioa?,  Mr.  Powell." 
Such  a  man  could  not  hope  to  stand  long  against  the 
assiduous  Mr.  Wilks,  whose  passion  for  work  seems  almost 
unequalled  in  the  history  of  the  stage.  Gibber  tells  us 
how,  on  one  occasion,  Wilks  had  prevailed  on  an  author 
to  cut  out  of  his  part  a  long  and  crabbed  speech  which  he 
found  it  difficult  to  master.  The  author  consented,  but 
Wilks,  thinking  it  an  indignity  to  his  memory  that  any- 
thing should  be  considered  too  hard  for  it,  went  home  and 
made  himself  perfect  in  the  speech,  though  well  knowing 
it  was  never  to  be  spoken  on  the  stage.  Such  perseverance, 
added  to  a  charming  and  sympathetic  personality,  enabled 
Wilks  to  follow,  though  at  a  distance,  in  the  steps  of 
Betterton.  "  To  beseech  gracefully,"  writes  Steele  in  the 
Tatler,  "to  approach  respectfully,  to  pity,  to  mourn,  to 
love,  are  the  places  wherein  Wilks  may  be  made  to  shine 
with  the  utmost  beauty." 

110 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY'1 

Such  was  Wilks  as  an  actor ;  but  as  manager,  if  we  may 
believe  Gibber,  he  was  a  perpetual  trial  to  his  colleagues. 
His  temper  was  impossible,  his  jealousy,  like  that  of  many 
artists,  ever  wakeful,  his  greed  for  parts  insatiable.  No 
amount  of  money  could  compensate  him  for  a  bad  part ; 
the  great  success  of  the  revival  of  the  Tempest  only  dis- 
gusted him,  because  it  condemned  him  to  go  on  playing 
the  indifferent  role  of  Ferdinand.  If  he  ever  gave  up  one 
of  his  parts,  it  was  only  to  appear  magnanimous,  and  by 
surrendering  it  to  some  raw  young  actor,  to  be  the  more 
regretted  in  it.  In  accordance  with  such  a  plan,  he,  on 
one  occasion,  surrendered  the  part  of  MacdufF,  in  which  he 
had  won  enthusiastic  praise,  to  a  young  recruit  to  the  com- 
pany, one  Charles  Williams,  contenting  himself  with  what 
was  then  considered  the  less  effective  part  of  Macbeth. 
Booth,  his  fellow-manager  and  rival  tragedian,  was  to 
play  Banquo,  but,  hearing  of  Wilks's  change  of  characters 
and  suspecting  the  real  motive,  he  went  to  Williams 
and  asked  him  to  give  him  Macduff  in  exchange  for 
Banquo.  Williams  readily  consented,  but  no  sooner 
did  the  news  reach  Wilks  that  the  experienced  Booth 
and  not  the  inexperienced  Williams  was  to  be  his 
successor  in  Macduff,  than  he  immediately  gave  up 
his  projected  appearance  as  Macbeth  and  resumed  his 
old  part. 

But  Gibber  gives  a  yet  more  amusing  instance  of  the 
difficult  temper  of  his  colleague.  Wilks,  it  appears,  was 
in  the  habit  of  constantly  complaining  that  he  was  over- 
worked— a  drudge,  in  fact ;  that  he  needed  rest  and  repose. 
At  length  Gibber  and  Booth,  weary  of  these  protestations, 
determined  to  try  their  value.  They  were  about  to  revive 
Vanbrugh's  comedy  of  The  Provoked  Wife.  Here  seemed 
an  excellent  opportunity  for  testing  the  alleged  fatigue  of 
Wilks.  After  the  play,  which  had  been  in  some  degree 
revised  since  its  original  production,  had  been  read  to  the 
company,  Gibber  turned  to  Wilks.  Says  Gibber,  the  part 

111 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S  "APOLOGY" 

of  Constant  in  this  play  being  a  character  of  less  action 
than  he,  Wilks,  had  generally  appeared  in,  this  seemed  a 
fitting  occasion  for  him  to  ease  himself  by  giving  it  to 
another; — here  Wilks  looked  grave — that,  as  the  love 
scenes,  suggested  Gibber,  were  rather  serious  than  gay, 
the  part  might  sit  very  well  on  Booth ; — down  dropped 
Wilks's  brow,  furled  were  his  features — that  if,  continued 
Gibber,  they  were  never  to  revive  a  play  without  him, 
what  would  they  do  if  he  were  indisposed  ? — here  Wilks 
pretended  to  stir  the  fire — that  for  one,  urged  Gibber,  in 
Wilks's  position  it  was  unprofitable  trouble  to  play  so  un- 
important a  part.  At  this  point,  says  Gibber,  the  pill 
began  to  gripe  him ;  Wilks,  bursting  into  a  passion, 
charged  his  colleagues  with  a  desire  to  ruin  him  with 
the  public,  and,  flinging  the  part  on  the  table,  sat  knocking 
his  heel  on  the  floor.  Booth,  to  calm  him  down,  said  he 
quite  saw  his  point ;  that,  after  all,  acting  was  the  most 
wholesome  exercise  in  the  world — in  fact,  it  always  gave 
him,  Booth,  a  good  stomach.  At  this  point  Mrs.  Oldtield, 
who  was  to  play  the  opposite  part  to  Wilks's  Constant, 
began  to  titter  behind  her  fan.  The  titter  seemed  lo 
suggest  to  Wilks  a  sudden  way  out  of  his  embarrassment. 
He  turned  to  Mrs.  Oldfield  and  said  that  if  she  would 
choose  her  own  Constant,  he  would  readily  give  it  up  to 
whomsoever  she  might  select.  Whereupon  Mrs.  Oldfield 
jumped  to  her  feet,  took  Gibber  by  the  shoulder,  with  her 
usual  frankness  called  them  all  a  parcel  of  fools  to  make 
such  a  rout  about  nothing,  and  insisted  on  Wilks  sticking 
to  the  part.  Thus,  by  help  of  a  woman's  ready  wit,  ended 
happily  a  very  quaint  and  amusing  scene  ;  but  Wilks  had 
been  made  to  see  that  his  fellow-managers  understood  the 
proper  value  of  his  complaints. 

Gibber,  in  spite  of  their  disagreements  and  the  frequent 
trouble  and  offence  caused  by  Wilks's  irascible  disposition, 
acknowledges  its  service  as  a  rod  by  which  to  keep  in  order 
the  hired  actors,  and  prevent  slackness  and  carelessness 

112 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   « APOLOGY  " 

entering  into  the  performances.  The  sharp  authority 
exercised  by  Wilks  on  the  stage  made  the  dreaming 
idleness  and  jolly  negligence  of  rehearsal,  which  had  grown 
up  under  Powell's  casual  supervision,  things  unknown  while 
Gibber  and  Wilks  were  managers  of  Drury  Lane.  Even 
the  great  Betterton,  from  his  gentle,  easy  temper,  had 
proved  himself  incapable  of  keeping  order  among  his 
players ;  so  that  we  may  consider  Mr.  Wilks  well  worth 
that  extra  ^50  a  year  paid  him  by  his  colleagues  nominally 
for  writing  out  the  playbills,  really  for  keeping  order  and 
preserving  discipline  behind  the  scenes. 

In  another  of  his  managerial  troubles  Gibber  touches  us 
very  nearly.  We  are  accustomed  to  think  to-day  that  never 
was  the  legitimate  drama  in  so  parlous  a  condition,  never 
did  the  more  serious  forms  of  dramatic  entertainment  have 
so  hard  a  struggle  for  life.  To  mention  only  musical  comedy, 
the  most  powerful  rival  of  the  legitimate  drama  in  the 
affection  of  the  public,  here  we  have  a  highly  delightful 
species  of  theatrical  fare  spread  before  the  public  with  a 
skill,  a  luxury,  a  distinction  that  have  never  before  been 
bestowed  on  them ;  artists  of  the  highest  quality  are 
engaged  in  its  service ;  nothing  is  spared  to  render  it 
attractive,  and  ample  has  been,  and  is,  the  reward  of  those 
who  have  lavished  so  much  pains  on  its  adornment.  And 
in  addition  to  this  attractive  competitor,  we  have  on  the 
one  side  the  opera,  now  an  annual  institution  ;  on  the  other 
music  halls  and  circuses  flourishing  in  popular  favour. 
Certainly  the  conditions  are  difficult,  more  difficult  than 
ever  before  ;  the  legitimate  drama  has  to  battle  bravely 
to  keep  its  head  above  the  waters  of  public  taste.  But, 
when  we  read  Gibber's  Apology,  we  are  inclined  to  ask, 
Was  it  not  ever  thus  ?  Had  not  the  purveyors  of  the 
drama  pure  and  simple  ever  the  same  contest  with  the 
natural  tendency  of  busy  men  to  fly  to  forms  of  entertain- 
ment that  offer  a  few  hours  of  thoughtless  enjoyment,  the 
natural  tendency  of  the  crowd  to  the  more  frivolous  forms 


COLLEY  CIBBEITS  "APOLOGY11 

of  relaxation  ?  Though  the  struggle  may  be  more  intense 
now  that  men  lead  more  rapid,  strenuous  lives,  and  con- 
sequently require  in  a  greater  measure  light  and  mentally 
restful  entertainment,  may  we  not  to-day  take  some  con- 
solation from  the  fact  that  it  is  no  new  struggle  we  are 
watching,  no  peculiar  affliction  of  our  own  generation,  that 
the  successful  exponents  of  serious  drama  in  the  past  had 
to  fight  the  same  battle,  to  hold  up  their  heads  against 
the  same  competing  forces,  different  in  style,  but  similar 
in  kind.  Gibber  would  have  us  believe  such  a  struggle  is 
as  old  as  the  days  of  Terence,  who  in  one  of  his  prologues 
reproves  the  Roman  audience  of  his  day  for  their  fondness 
for  the  "  funambuli,""  or  rope-dancers.  It  is  certainly  as 
old  as  Horace.  With  Colley  Gibber  the  wail  of  the  injured 
manager  and  dramatist  is  continuous  throughout  the  pages 
of  the  Apology,  whilst  we  find  Dryden,  Pope,  Steele,  and 
later  Dr.  Johnson  complaining  constantly  of  the  degrada- 
tion of  the  drama  by  the  introduction  of  singers,  dancers, 
puppets,  and  elephants  on  a  stage  that  should,  in  their 
opinion,  be  reserved  for  the  productions  of  pure  tragedy 
and  comedy.  Gibber  reproaches  Sir  William  Davenant 
with  being  the  first  manager  to  try  to  combat  the  success 
of  a  rival  company  of  actors  more  popular  than  his  own 
by  resorting  to  the  production  of  dramatic  operas,  and  ver- 
sions of  The  Tempest  and  Macbeth  decked  out  in  expensive 
scenes  and  habits,  and  lightened  by  the  efforts  of  the 
best  singers  and  dancers ;  says  Gibber,  it  was  little  wonder 
that  these  frivolous  spectacles  grew  too  hard  for  sense  and 
simple  nature,  when  it  is  considered  how  many  more  people 
there  are  that  can  see  and  hear  than  think  and  judge. 
Later  Betterton  is  rebuked  for  having  brought  over  three 
famous  French  dancers,  "  mimics  and  tumblers,"  and  we 
find  an  angry  dramatist  exclaiming  in  a  prologue : 

Must  Shakespeare,  Fletcher  and  laborious  Ben 
Be  left  for  Scaramouch  and  Harlequin  ? 

114 


COLLEY  GIBBERS   "APOLOGY" 

Anon,  Italian  opera  steals  in,  in  the  person  of  one 
Valentini,  a  true  and  sensible  singer,  according  to  Gibber, 
but  "of  a  throat  too  weak  to  sustain  those  melodious 
warblings  for  which  the  fairer  sex  have  since  idolised  his 
successors."  Horror  upon  horror  accumulates  when  Rich, 
always  anxious,  as  Gibber  admits,  to  please  the  majority, 
meditates  the  introduction  on  to  his  stage  of  a  phenomen- 
ally large  elephant,  and  is  only  deterred  from  the  outrage 
by  the  bricklayer's  assurance  that  if  he  takes  down  any 
part  of  the  wall  to  admit  the  beast,  the  elephant  will 
assuredly  bring  down  the  house.  Cheated  of  his  elephant, 
Rich  fell  back  on  some  rope-dancers.  This  was  too  much 
for  Gibber,  then  a  member  of  Rich's  company.  On  the 
first  night  of  the  rope-dancers1  performance  the  indignant 
actor  stepped  down  into  the  pit,  and  told  those  sitting  near 
him  that  he  hoped  they  would  excuse  him  if  he  declined 
any  longer  to  appear  on  a  stage  brought  so  low  as  it  was 
by  that  night's  disgraceful  entertainment ;  and  he  tells  us 
the  audience  took  the  player's  protest  in  good  part,  and 
Rich  was  obliged  shortly  after  to  get  rid  of  his  rope-dancers. 

From  all  quarters,  it  would  appear,  the  actors  of  the 
eighteenth  century  received  sympathy  in  a  predicament  of 
this  kind.  Gibber  relates  how  a  nobleman,  indignant  at 
the  attention  an  opera  was  attracting  at  one  of  the  theatres, 
told  Gibber  that  it  was  shameful  to  take  part  of  the  actors' 
bread  from  them  to  support  the  silly  diversion  of  people 
of  quality.  One  can  hardly  help  contrasting  with  the 
utterance  of  this  nobleman  that  of  the  Viscount  in  Martin 
Chuzzkwit.  "  What's  the  good  of  Shakespeare,  Pip  ? " 
he  asks.  "  I  never  read  him.  What  the  devil  is  it  all 
about,  Pip  ?  There's  a  lot  of  feet  in  Shakespeare's  verse, 
but  there  ain't  any  legs  worth  mentioning  in  Shakespeare's 
plays,  are  there,  Pip  ?  Juliet,  Desdemona,  Lady  Macbeth, 
and  all  the  rest  of  'em,  whatever  their  names  are,  might  as 
well  have  no  legs  at  all,  for  anything  the  audience  know 
about  it,  Pip.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  What  the 

115 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY11 

people  call  dramatic  poetry  is  a  collection  of  sermons.  Do 
I  go  to  the  theatre  to  be  lectured  ?  No,  Pip.  If  I  wanted 
that,  I'd  go  to  church.  What's  the  legitimate  object  of 
the  drama,  Pip  ?  Human  nature.  What  are  legs  ?  Human 
nature.  Then  let  us  have  plenty  of  leg  pieces,  Pip,  and 
I'll  stand  by  you,  my  buck  !  "  As  to  which  of  these  two 
noblemen  are  to  be  regarded  as  voicing  the  true  sentiments 
of  the  majority  of  their  order  at  the  present  day  towards 
the  relative  merits  of  serious  and  light  entertainments,  we 
cannot  pause  to  determine ;  we  can  only  express  a  passing 
hope  that  the  Viscount  has  not  got  it  all  his  own  way. 

But  Nemesis,  in  the  shape  of  managerial  necessity,  was 
to  overtake  Gibber,  and  bring  him  to  his  knees  for  his 
affronts  to  the  singers  and  dancers.  When  he  had  been 
manager  of  Drury  Lane  for  some  time  he  found  himself 
obliged,  from  the  accustomed  lack  of  sufficiently  good 
plays,  to  fight  a  rival  theatre  by  resorting  to  these  same 
singers  and  dancers  whom  he  had  roundly  censured,  and 
to  all  the  arts  and  graces  of  pantomime.  The  Loves 
of  Mars  and  Venus  was  the  first  of  these  crutches,  as  he 
calls  them,  to  which  he  was  driven  for  support ;  thence 
swiftly  declining,  we  find  him  producing  Harlequin 
Sorcerer,  in  which  Harlequin  is  hatched  on  the  stage 
from  a  huge  egg,  and  so  incurring  the  castigation  of  his 
enemy,  Pope,  who,  alluding  to  this  entertainment  and  its 
scenic  triumphs,  writes  in  The  Dunciad  : 

The  forests  dance,  the  rivers  upward  rise, 
Whales  sport  in  woods,  and  dolphins  in  the  skies  ; 
And  last,  to  give  the  whole  creation  grace, 
Lo  !  one  vast  Egg  produces  human  race  ! 

And  again  : 

But,  lo  !  to  dark  encounter  in  mid  air 

New  wizards  rise :  here  Booth,  and  Gibber  there, 

Booth  in  his  cloudy  tabernacle  shrin'd, 

On  grinning  Dragons  Cibber  mounts  the  wind. 

116 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY11 

Gibber  was  much  too  shrewd  and  honest  not  to  be  con- 
scious of  his  guilt  in  this  respect,  and  confess  his  error  in 
making  use  of  fooleries  he  had  condemned.  And  he  seeks 
to  excuse  himself  by  drawing  a  parallel  between  his  own 
conduct  and  that  of  King  Henry  IV.  of  France  in  adopting 
the  Roman  Catholic  religion  to  suit  the  exigencies  of  his 
political  situation.  "  I  was  still  in  my  heart,"  he  writes, 
"  as  much  on  the  side  of  truth  and  sense  as  the  French 
King,  but  with  this  difference,  that  I  had  leave  to  quit 
them  when  they  could  not  support  me ;  for  what  equivalent 
could  I  have  found  for  falling  a  martyr  to  them  ?  "  And 
he  goes  on  in  a  pleasant  spirit  to  justify  his  vanity  in 
venturing  to  compare  his  conduct  with  that  of  so  great 
a  man  as  Henry  IV.  "  What  I  want  of  the  king's 
grandeur,  nature  has  amply  supplied  to  me  in  vanity, 
a  pleasure  which  neither  the  pertness  of  wit  nor  the 
gravity  of  wisdom  will  ever  persuade  me  to  part  with. 
.  .  .  Vanity  is  of  all  complexions,  the  growth  of  every 
clime  and  capacity ;  authors  of  all  ages  have  had  a  tincture 
of  it ;  and  yet  you  read  Horace,  Montaigne,  and  Sir 
William  Temple  with  pleasure.  Nor  am  I  sure,  if  it 
were  curable  by  precept,  that  mankind  would  be  mended 
by  it.  Could  vanity  be  eradicated  from  our  nature,  I  am 
afraid  that  the  reward  of  most  human  virtues  would  not 
be  found  in  this  world.  And  happy  is  he  who  has  no 
greater  sin  to  answer  for  in  the  next ! " 

With  this  pleasing  admission  of  a  fault  which,  confessed, 
loses  half  its  mischief,  let  us  leave  old  Gibber.  Over  his 
sketches,  brilliant  many  of  them,  of  his  brother  actors,  over 
his  quarrel  with  Pope,  over  the  many  incidents  of  his  varied, 
busy  life  that  he  narrates  with  such  unfailing  spirit,  such 
a  humorous  appreciation  of  the  realities  of  things,  of  the 
good  and  ill  in  human  character,  I  have  no  time  to  linger ; 
I  can  only  advise  those  who  read  me  to  turn  to  the  book 
itself,  which  will  very  pleasantly  while  away  a  leisure  hour. 
It  is  a  book  which  must  have  an  abiding  interest  for 

117 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY11 

those  who  are  lovers  of  the  theatre.  Gibber  has  some- 
thing to  say  to  us  after  two  hundred  years  have  gone 
by,  because  his  book  is  written  from  the  inside  of  the 
theatre,  not  from  without ;  not  by  one  ignorant  of  actors, 
unsympathetic  towards  their  art,  but  by  a  successful  actor, 
manager  and  author,  a  man  who,  whatever  his  faults  of 
character,  at  least  loved  and  respected  his  profession,  up- 
held its  dignity,  reformed  its  abuses,  and  paid  his  way  as 
an  honest  man  ;  one  of  the  best  as  he  was  one  of  the  first 
of  actor-managers.  Gibber's  Apology  is  the  shrewd 
reply  of  the  practical  man  of  the  world  to  the  pedants 
and  theorists  who,  sitting  in  their  studies,  would  fain 
conduct  from  their  desks  the  business  of  the  theatre. 
And  it  is  the  best  reply  to  those  who  would  have  us 
believe  that  the  actor  is  a  strange,  peculiar  being, 
something  rather  less  than  a  man,  but  possibly  more 
than  a  monkey,  an  impaired,  unmanly  citizen.  Gibber's 
actors  and  actresses,  as  he  pictures  them  for  us  in  his 
book,  are  on  the  whole  as  good  specimens  of  ordinary 
men  and  women  as  we  are  likely  to  meet  with  in  any 
other  society  of  his  day  ;  and  they  are  the  same  now. 
There  are,  of  course,  and  have  been,  actors  and  actors, 
as  there  are  varied  specimens  of  every  class ;  actors,  like 
Betterton,  great  and  worthy  men  ;  like  Scum  Goodman 
who,  in  addition  to  being  an  actor,  was  a  cheat,  a  highway- 
man, a  traitor,  and  a  would-be  murderer  ;  the  Addisons 
and  the  Savages,  the  Johnsons  and  the  Boyces  of  our 
calling ;  but  in  their  essential  characteristics  no  different 
from  other  men,  neither  better  nor  worse. 

When  I  read  these  disquisitions  on  the  natural  inferiority 
of  the  actor  as  a  man,  I  am  irresistibly  reminded  of 
Mr.  Disraeli's  famous  speech  before  the  Oxford  Diocesan 
Society  on  the  Darwinian  theory  of  the  descent  of  man, 
when  he  asked,  "  What  is  the  question  placed  before  society 
with  such  glib  assurance  ?  Is  man  an  ape  or  an  angel  ? 
My  Lord,"  he  replied,  addressing  the  bishop  who  presided, 

118 


COLLEY  GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY" 

"  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  angels."  When  we  hear  it 
asked  whether  the  actor  is  rather  less  than  a  man,  a 
damaged  specimen  of  humanity,  or  whether  he  is  a  man 
and  an  artist  in  the  ordinary  acceptance  of  the  terms, 
may  we  not  range  ourselves  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  on 
the  side  of  such  great  and  glorious  men  of  genius  as 
Goethe  and  Voltaire,  Lessing  and  Hazlitt,  who  admired 
and  respected  the  art  of  the  player,  the  achievements  of 
the  theatre ;  on  the  side  of  those  two  good  archbishops, 
Bancroft  and  Tillotson,  who  admitted  actors  to  their 
society  and  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the  great  players 
of  their  day  ?  To  deny  the  full  privilege  of  manhood  to 
the  actor,  to  take  from  him  but  one  jot  or  tittle  of 
full  citizenship  in  whatever  state  he  has  his  place,  is,  in 
the  words  of  Mr.  Disraeli,  foreign  to  the  conscience  of 
humanity,  a  conclusion  that  from  the  strictest  intellectual 
point  of  view  cannot  be  sustained.  The  history  of  the 
theatre,  of  the  careers  of  those  whose  lives  have  been 
devoted  to  its  service,  furnishes  abundant  and  overwhelming 
proof,  that,  if  we  are  to  quote  Henley's  poem  in  this 
relation,  to  live  a  few  hours  on  the  stage  in  those 
"  knightly  years  that  have  gone  with  the  old  world  to 
the  grave,"  be  it  as  King  in  Babylon  or  Christian  slave, 
does  not  unsex  the  player  or  impair  his  character  ;  that 
he  is  as  much  the  master  of  his  fate,  the  captain  of 
his  soul,  as  the  advocate  who  pleads  for  the  man  he 
cannot  help  knowing  to  be  guilty,  the  journalist  who 
has  to  sustain  a  cause  against  which  his  inward  conviction 
rebels,  or  the  novelist  who  throws  the  full  energy  of  his 
genius  into  the  creation  of  some  splendid  type  of  human 
villainy. 

The  prejudice  against  the  actor  is  dying,  but,  like  any 
prejudice  that  has  religion  to  support  it,  it  is  dying  hard. 
A  prejudice  that  can  cite  pulpit  justification  for  uncharit- 
able conduct  is — such  is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature — 
strangely  hard  to  kill ;  any  opportunity  that  a  Chadband 

119 


COLLEY   GIBBER'S   -'APOLOGY11 

can  enjoy  of  looking  down  on  and  anathematising  one  not 
too  obviously  his  inferior,  will  be  ever  welcome  to  crawling 
minds.  But  that  such  a  prejudice  is  anything  but  one 
of  those  many  unsightly  masks  by  which  in  past  ages 
human  weakness  has  hidden  the  face  of  true  religion 
I  refuse  to  believe.  And  the  religion  of  the  future  will 
wonder  at  those  who  have  shuddered  and  held  up  their 
hands  at  what  Gibber  has  well  described  as  "  the  most 
rational  scheme  that  human  wit  could  form  to  dissipate 
with  innocence  the  cares  of  life,11  and  will  consider  the 
man  who  has  devoted  his  life  to  such  a  cause  no  mean 
citizen,  no  unworthy  servant  to  the  public  good. 

Of  course,  we  actors  must  not  look  to  all  men  for 
sympathy,  nor  expect  it  from  them.  As  some  men  of 
high  ability,  of  refined  taste  in  many  things,  are  deaf 
to  the  charms  of  music,  it  has  no  appeal  to  them,  the 
sense  of  it  is  lacking  in  their  natures ;  so  are  there 
men  of  culture  and  attainment,  men  of  genius  like 
Rousseau,  to  whom  the  art  of  acting  makes  no  appeal, 
who  have  no  sympathy  with  the  actor's  work.  Such 
men  have,  no  doubt,  at  different  times  been  called  on 
to  write  about  the  theatre,  and  that  they  should  write 
with  little  sympathy  is  all  that  we  can  expect ;  nor 
should  we  resent  what  we  cannot  correct.  But  we  have 
at  least  the  right  to  ask  that  such  a  want  of  sympathy 
should  be  the  strongest  reason  for  making  any  man 
pause  and  consider  before  he  proclaims  himself  to  be 
the  constant  witness  or  judge  of  what,  if  it  be  true  that 
to  act  unmans  a  man,  must  be  a  degrading  spectacle, 
before  he  even  suggests,  however  ingeniously,  against 
any  section  of  his  fellow-men  that,  in  comparison  with 
himself,  in  comparison  with  those  who  watch  and  enjoy 
their  achievements,  they  are  impaired  and  unmanly  citizens. 
In  all  times  and  ages  since  the  theatre  has  been  established, 
and  never  more  so  than  at  the  present  day,  the  actor,  to 
succeed  and  hold  his  own,  to  encounter  the  difficulties,  the 

120 


COLLEY    GIBBER'S   "APOLOGY11 

chances,  the,  at  times,  cruel  anxieties  of  his  calling,  has 
required,  shall  I  say,  a  greater  mastery  of  his  fate,  a  higher 
captaincy  of  soul,  than  many  another  man  is  called  on  to 
exercise  whose  work  is  done  in  more  peaceful  and  secure 
surroundings  ;  and  when  I  look  around  on  the  careers  of 
those  who  are  to-day  at  the  head  of  my  profession,  I  feel 
that,  whatever  the  varieties  of  their  artistic  achievement, 
to  reach  the  positions  to  which  they  have  attained  they 
have  had  to  exercise  those  same  qualities  of  endurance, 
pluck,  determination  and  self-control  that  we  look  for 
in  all  men  who  have  made  their  mark,  in  however  modest 
a  sphere,  on  the  history  of  their  time. 


121 


123 


I  RECEIVED,  not  very  long  ago,  in  a  provincial  town,  a 
letter  from  a  young  lady,  who  wished  to  adopt  the  stage 
as  a  profession  but  was  troubled  in  her  mind  by  certain 
anxieties  and  uncertainties.  These  she  desired  me  to 
relieve.  The  questions  asked  by  my  correspondent  are 
rather  typical  questions — questions  that  are  generally  asked 
by  those  who,  approaching  the  stage  from  the  outside,  in 
the  light  of  prejudice  and  misrepresentation,  believe  the 
calling  of  the  actor  to  be  one  morally  dangerous  and  intel- 
lectually contemptible ;  one  in  which  it  is  equally  easy  to 
succeed  as  an  artist  and  degenerate  as  an  individual.  She 
begins  by  telling  me  that  she  has  a  "  fancy  for  the  stage," 
and  has  "  heard  a  great  many  things  about  it."  Now,  for 
any  man  or  woman  to  become  an  actor  or  actress  because 
they  have  a  "  fancy  for  the  stage "  is  in  itself  the  height 
of  folly.  There  is  no  calling,  I  would  venture  to  say, 
which  demands  on  the  part  of  the  aspirant  greater  search- 
ing of  heart,  thought,  deliberation,  real  assurance  of  fitness, 
reasonable  prospect  of  success  before  deciding  to  follow  it, 
than  that  of  the  actor.  And  not  the  least  advantage  of 
a  dramatic  school  lies  in  the  fact  that  some  of  its  pupils 
may  learn  to  reconsider  their  determination  to  go  on  the 
stage,  become  convinced  of  their  own  unfitness,  recognise 
in  time  that  they  will  be  wise  to  abandon  a  career  which 
must  always  be  hazardous  and  difficult  even  to  those  who 

1  A  lecture  given  to  the  students  of  the  Academy  of  Dramatic 
Art,  reprinted  from  The  Fortnightly  Review. 

125 


THE   CALIJNG   OF  THE   ACTOR 

are  successful,  and  cruel  to  those  who  fail.  Let  it  be 
something  far  sterner  and  stronger  than  mere  fancy  that 
decides  you  to  try  your  fortunes  in  the  theatre. 

My  correspondent  says  she  has  "heard  a  great  many 
things  about  the  stage."  If  I  might  presume  to  offer  a 
piece  of  advice,  it  would  be  this  :  "  Never  believe  anything 
you  hear  about  actors  and  actresses  from  those  who  are 
not  actually  familiar  with  them.'1  The  amount  of  nonsense 
and  untruth  (sometimes  mischievous,  often  silly)  talked  by 
otherwise  rational  people  about  the  theatre,  would  be  in- 
conceivable were  it  not  for  one's  own  personal  experience. 
It  is  one  of  the  penalties  of  the  glamour,  the  illusion  of 
the  actor's  art,  that  the  public  who  see  men  and  women  in 
fictitious  but  highly  exciting  and  moving  situations  on 
the  stage,  cannot  believe  that  when  they  quit  the  theatre, 
they  leave  behind  them  the  emotions,  the  actions  they 
have  portrayed  there.  And  as  there  is  no  class  of  public 
servants  in  whom  the  public  they  serve  take  so  keen  an 
interest  as  actors  and  actresses,  the  wildest  inventions  about 
their  private  lives  and  domestic  behaviour  pass  as  current, 
and  are  eagerly  retailed  at  afternoon  teas  in  suburban 
drawing-rooms. 

Now,  the  first  question  my  correspondent  asks  me  is 
this :  "  Does  a  young  woman  going  on  the  stage  need  a 
good  education  and  also  to  know  languages  ?  "  To  answer 
the  first  part  of  the  question  is  not,  I  think,  very  difficult. 
The  supremely  great  actor  or  actress  of  natural  genius 
need  have  no  education  or  knowledge  of  languages ;  it 
will  be  immaterial  whether  he  or  she  has  enjoyed  all  the 
advantages  of  birth  and  education  or  has  been  picked  up 
in  the  streets ;  genius,  the  highest  talent,  will  assert  itself 
irrespective  of  antecedents.  But  I  should  say  that  any 
sort  of  education  was  of  the  greatest  value  to  an  actor  or 
actress  of  average  ability,  and  that  the  fact  that  the  ranks 
of  the  stage  are  recruited  to-day  to  a  certain  extent  from 
our  great  schools  and  universities,  from  among  classes  of 

126 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

people  who  fifty  years  ago  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
entering  our  calling,  is  one  on  which  we  may  congratulate 
ourselves.  Though  the  production  of  great  actors  and 
actresses  will  not  be  affected  either  one  way  or  the  other 
by  these  circumstances,  at  the  same  time  our  calling  must 
benefit  in  the  general  level  of  its  excellence,  in  its  fitness 
to  represent  all  grades  of  society  on  the  stage,  if  those  who 
follow  it  are  picked  from  all  classes,  if  the  stage  has  ceased 
to  be  regarded  as  a  calling  unfit  for  a  man  or  woman  of 
breeding  or  education. 

The  second  question  this  lady  asks  me  is  this :  "  Does 
she  need  to  have  her  voice  trained,  and  about  what  age 
do  people  generally  commence  to  go  on  the  stage  ?  "  The 
first  part  of  this  question  as  to  voice  training  touches  on 
the  value  of  an  Academy  of  Acting.  Of  the  value — the 
practical  value — of  such  an  institution,  rightly  conducted, 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  That  acting  cannot  be  taught  is 
a  well-worn  maxim,  and  perhaps  a  true  one ;  but  acting 
can  be  disciplined ;  the  ebullient,  sometimes  eccentric  and 
disordered  manifestations  of  budding  talent  may  be  modi- 
fied by  the  art  of  the  teacher ;  those  rudiments,  which  many 
so  often  acquire  painfully  in  the  course  of  rehearsal,  the 
pupils  who  leave  an  academy  should  be  already  masters  of, 
and  so  they  will  save  much  time  and  trouble  to  those  whose 
business  it  is  to  produce  plays.  The  want  of  any  means 
of  training  the  beginner,  of  coping  at  all  with  the  floods 
of  men  and  women,  fit  and  unfit,  who  are  ever  clamouring 
at  the  doors  of  the  theatre,  has  been  a  long-crying  and 
much-felt  grievance.  The  establishment  of  this  academy 
should  go  far  to  remove  what  has  been  by  no  means  an 
unjust  reproach  to  our  theatrical  system.  As  to  the  age 
at  which  a  person  should  begin  a  theatrical  career,  I  do 
not  think  there  is  any  actor  or  actress  who  would  not  say 
that  it  is  impossible  to  begin  too  early — at  least,  as  early 
as  a  police  magistrate  will  allow.  That  art  is  long  and 
life  short  applies  quite  as  truthfully  to  the  actor's  as  to 

127 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

any  other  art,  and  as  the  years  go  on  there  must  be  many 
who  regret  that  they  did  not  sooner  decide  to  follow  a 
calling  which  seems  to  carry  one  all  too  quickly  through 
the  flight  of  time. 

My  correspondent  also  asks  me  a  question  which  I  shall 
answer  very  briefly,  but  which  it  is  as  well  should  be 
answered.  She  writes  :  "  Are  there  many  temptations  for 
a  girl  on  the  stage,  and  need  she  necessarily  fall  into 
them  ? "  Of  course  there  are  such  temptations  on  the 
stage,  as  there  must  be  in  any  calling  in  which  men  and 
women  are  brought  into  contact  on  a  footing  of  equality ; 
perhaps  these  temptations  are  somewhat  intensified  in  the 
theatre.  At  the  same  time  I  would  venture  to  say,  from 
my  own  experience  of  that  branch  of  theatrical  business 
with  which  I  have  been  connected — and  in  such  matters 
one  can  only  speak  from  personal  experience — that  any 
woman  yielding  to  these  temptations  has  only  herself  to 
blame,  that  any  well-brought-up,  sensible  girl  will,  and 
can,  avoid  them  altogether,  and  that  I  should  not  make 
these  temptations  a  ground  for  dissuading  any  young 
woman  in  whom  I  might  be  interested  from  joining  our 
calling.  To  say,  as  a  writer  once  said,  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  a  girl  to  succeed  on  the  stage  without  impaired 
morals,  is  a  statement  as  untrue  as  to  say  that  no  man  can 
succeed  as  a  lawyer  unless  he  be  a  rogue,  a  doctor  unless 
he  be  a  quack,  a  parson  unless  he  be  a  hypocrite. 

To  all  who  intend  to  become  actors  and  actresses,  my 
first  word  of  advice  would  be :  Respect  this  calling  you 
have  chosen  to  pursue.  You  will  often  in  your  experience 
hear  it,  see  it  in  print,  slighted  and  contemned.  There 
are  many  reasons  for  this.  Religious  prejudice,  fostered 
by  the  traditions  of  a  by  no  means  obsolete  Puritanism,  is 
one ;  the  envy  of  those  who,  forgetting  the  disadvantages, 
the  difficulties,  the  uncertainty  of  the  actor's  life,  see 
only  the  glare  of  popular  adulation,  the  glitter  of  the 
comparatively  large  salaries  paid  to  a  few — such 

128 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

unreasoning  envy  as  this  is  another;  and  the  want  of 
sympathy  of  some  writers  with  the  art  itself,  who,  unable 
to  pray  with  Goethe  and  Voltaire,  remain  to  scoff  with 
Jeremy  Collier,  is  a  third.  There  are  causes  from  without 
that  will  always  keep  alive  a  certain  measure  of  hostility 
towards  the  player.  The  public  regard  for  the  actor 
provokes  in  some  instances  the  resentment  of  those  whose 
achievements  in  art  appeal  less  immediately,  less  strikingly, 
to  their  audience.  But  if  they  would  only  pause  to 
consider,  surely  they  might  lay  to  their  souls  the  unction 
that  the  immediate  reward  of  the  actor  in  his  lifetime  is 
merely  nature's  compensation  to  him  for  the  comparative 
oblivion  of  his  achievements  when  he  has  ceased  to  be. 
Imagine  for  one  moment  Shakespeare  and  Garrick  con- 
templating at  the  present  moment  from  the  heights  the 
spectacle  of  their  fame.  Who  would  grudge  the  actor 
the  few  years  of  fervid  admiration  he  was  privileged 
to  enjoy  some  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  as  compared 
with  the  centuries  of  living  glory  that  have  fallen  to 
the  great  poet? 

Sometimes  you  may  hear  your  calling  sneered  at  by 
those  who  pursue  it.  There  are  few  professions  that  are 
not  similarly  girded  at  by  some  of  their  own  members, 
either  from  disappointment  or  some  ingrained  discontent. 
When  you  hear  such  detraction,  fix  your  thoughts  not  on 
the  paltry  accidents  of  your  art,  such  as  the  use  of  cos- 
metics and  other  little  infirmities  of  its  practice,  things 
that  are  obvious  marks  for  the  cheap  sneer,  but  look  rather 
to  what  that  art  is  capable  of  in  its  highest  forms — to 
what  is  the  essence  of  the  actor's  achievement,  what  he 
can  do  and  has  done  to  win  the  genuine  admiration  and 
respect  of  those  whose  admiration  and  respect  have  been 
worth  the  having. 

You  will  read  and  hear,  no  doubt,  in  your  experience, 
that  acting  is  in  reality  no  art  at  all,  that  it  is  mere 
sedulous  copying  of  nature,  demanding  neither  thought  nor 

129  K 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

originality.  I  will  only  cite  in  reply  a  passage  from  a 
letter  of  the  poet  Coleridge  to  the  elder  Charles  Mathews, 
which,  I  venture  to  think,  goes  some  way  to  settle  the 
question.  "  A  great  actor,"  he  writes,  "  comic  or  tragic, 
is  not  to  be  a  mere  copy,  a  fac-simile,  but  an  imitation  of 
nature  ;  now  an  imitation  differs  from  a  copy  in  this,  that 
it  of  necessity  implies  and  demands  a  difference,  whereas 
a  copy  aims  at  identity  ;  and  what  a  marble  peach  on  the 
mantelpiece,  that  you  take  up  deluded  and  put  down  with 
a  pettish  disgust,  is  compared  with  a  fruit-piece  of  Van- 
huysen's,  even  such  is  a  mere  copy  of  nature,  with  a  true 
histrionic  imitation.  A  good  actor  is  Pygmalion's  statue, 
a  work  of  exquisite  art,  animated  and  gifted  with  motion  ; 
but  still  art,  still  a  species  of  poetry."  So  writes  Cole- 
ridge. Raphael,  speaking  of  painting,  expresses  the  same 
thought,  equally  applicable  to  the  art  of  acting.  "To 
paint  a  fair  one,"  he  says,  "  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  see 
many  fair  ones  ;  but  because  there  is  so  great  a  scarcity  of 
lovely  women,  I  am  constrained  to  make  use  of  one  certain 
ideal,  which  I  have  formed  to  myself  in  my  own  fancy." 
So  the  actor  who  has  to  portray  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth 
— any  great  dramatic  character — has  to  form  an  ideal  of 
such  a  character  in  his  own  fancy,  in  fact,  to  employ  an 
exercise  of  imagination  similar  to  that  of  the  painter 
who  seeks  to  depict  an  ideal  man  or  woman ;  the  actor 
certainly  will  not  meet  his  types  of  Hamlet  and  Othello  in 
the  street. 

But,  whilst  in  your  hearts  you  should  cherish  a  firm 
respect  for  the  calling,  the  art  you  pursue,  let  that  respect 
be  a  silent  and  modest  regard ;  it  will  be  all  the  stronger 
for  that.  I  have  known  actors  and  actresses  who  were 
always  talking  about  their  art  with  a  big  A,  their  "  art- 
life,"  their  "  life-work,"  their  careers  and  futures,  and  so 
on.  Keep  these  things  to  yourselves,  for  I  have  observed 
that  eloquence  and  hyper-earnestness  of  this  kind  not 
infrequently  go  with  rather  disappointing  achievement. 

130 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

Think,  act,  but  don't  talk  about  it.  And,  above  all,  be- 
cause you  are  actors  and  actresses,  for  that  very  reason  be 
sincere  and  unaffected ;  avoid  rather  than  court  publicity, 
for  you  will  have  quite  enough  of  it  if  you  get  on  in  your 
profession  ;  the  successful  actor  is  being  constantly  tempted 
to  indiscretion.  Do  not  yield  too  readily  to  the  blandish- 
ments of  the  photographer  or  the  enterprising  editor  who 
asks  you  what  are  the  love  scenes  you  have  most  enjoyed 
playing  on  the  stage,  and  whether  an  actor  or  actress  can 
be  happy  though  married.  Be  natural  on  the  stage,  and 
be  just  as  natural  off  it ;  regard  the  thing  you  have  to  do 
as  work  that  has  to  be  done  to  the  best  of  your  power ; 
if  it  be  well  done  it  will  bring  its  own  reward.  It  may 
not  be  an  immediate  reward,  but  have  faith,  keep  your 
purpose  serious,  so  serious  as  to  be  almost  a  secret ;  bear 
in  mind  that  ordinary  people  expect  you,  just  because  you 
are  actors  and  actresses,  to  be  extraordinary,  unnatural, 
peculiar ;  do  your  utmost  at  all  times  and  seasons  to  dis- 
appoint such  expectations. 

English  actors  and  actresses  should  remember  that  they 
are  fortunate  at  least  in  one  respect ;  in  no  country  in  the 
world  are  actors  so  well  considered,  so  socially  acceptable 
as  here  in  England.  This  was  true  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  when  Voltaire  bitterly  compared  the  refusal  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  in  France  to  bury  with  decency 
the  famous  actress,  Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  with  the  fact 
that  our  Nance  Oldfield  was  laid  to  rest  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  It  is  equally  true  in,  of  course,  a  modified  form 
to-day.  Whilst,  abroad,  in  some  countries  the  actor  and 
actress  are  barely  regarded  as  ordinary  citizens,  here  in 
England  they  labour  under  few  serious  disabilities.  To 
the  successful  actor  society,  if  he  desire  it,  offers  a  warm 
and  cordial  welcome.  The  fact  of  a  man  being  an  actor 
does  not  debar  him  from  such  gratification  as  he  may 
find  in  the  social  pleasures.  And  I  believe  that  the  effect 
of  such  a  raising  of  the  actor's  status  as  has  been  witnessed 

131 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

in  the  last  fifty  years  has  been  to  elevate  the  general  tone 
of  our  calling  and  bring  into  it  men  and  women  of 
education  and  refinement. 

At  the  same  time,  remember  that  social  enjoyments 
should  always  be  a  secondary  consideration  to  the  actor, 
something  of  a  luxury  to  be  sparingly  indulged  in.  An 
actor  should  never  let  himself  be  beguiled  into  the  belief 
that  society,  generally  speaking,  is  seriously  interested  in 
what  he  does,  or  that  popularity  in  drawing-rooms  con- 
notes success  in  the  theatre.  It  does  nothing  of  the  kind. 
Always  remember  that  you  can  hope  to  have  but  few,  very 
few,  friends  or  admirers  of  any  class  who  will  pay  to  see 
you  in  a  failure ;  you  will  be  lucky  if  a  certain  number  do 
not  ask  you  for  free  admission  to  see  you  in  a  success. 

It  is  to  a  public  far  larger,  far  more  real  and  genuine 
than  this,  that  you  will  one  day  have  to  appeal.  It  is  in 
their  presence  that  you  will  finish  your  education.  The 
final  school  for  the  actor  is  his  audience ;  they  are  the 
necessary  complement  to  the  exercise  of  his  art,  and  it  is 
by  the  impression  he  produces  on  them  that  he  will 
ultimately  stand  or  fall ;  on  their  verdict,  and  on  their 
verdict  alone,  will  his  success  or  failure  as  an  artist  depend. 
But,  if  you  have  foUowed  carefully,  assiduously,  the  course 
of  instruction  now  open  to  you,  when  the  time  has  arrived 
for  you  to  face  an  audience  you  will  start  with  a  very 
considerable  handicap  in  your  favour.  If  you  have  learnt 
to  move  well  and  to  speak  well,  to  be  clear  in  your  enuncia- 
tion and  graceful  in  your  bearing,  you  are  bound  to  arrest 
at  once  the  attention  of  any  audience,  no  matter  where  it 
may  be,  before  whom  you  appear.  Obvious  and  necessary 
as  are  these  two  acquirements  of  graceful  bearing  and 
correct  diction,  they  are  not  so  generally  diffused  as  to 
cease  to  be  remarkable.  Consequently,  however  modest 
your  beginning  on  the  stage,  however  short  the  part  you 
may  be  called  upon  to  play,  you  should  find  immediately 
the  benefit  of  your  training.  You  may  have  to  unlearn 

132 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

a  certain  amount,  or  rather  to  mould  and  shape  what  you 
have  learnt  to  your  new  conditions ;  but  if  you  have  been 
well  grounded  in  the  essential  elements  of  an  actor's 
education,  you  will  start  with  an  enonnous  advantage  over 
such  of  your  competitors  as  have  waited  till  they  go  into 
a  theatre  to  learn  what  can  be  acquired  just  as  well,  better, 
more  thoroughly,  outside  it. 

It  has  been  my  object  to  deal  generally  with  the  actor's 
calling,  a  calling  difficult  and  hazardous  in  character, 
demanding  much  patience,  self-reliance,  determination,  and 
good  temper.  This  last  is  not  one  of  its  least  important 
demands  on  your  character.  Remember  that  the  actor  is 
not  in  one  sense  of  the  word  an  independent  artist ;  it  is 
his  misfortune  that  the  practice  of  his  art  is  absolutely 
dependent  on  the  fulfilment  of  elaborate  external  con- 
ditions. The  painter,  the  musician,  so  long  as  they  can 
find  paint  and  canvas,  ink  and  paper,  can  work  at  their 
art,  alone,  independent  of  external  circumstances.  Not 
so  the  actor.  Before  he  can  act,  the  theatre,  the  play, 
scenery,  fellow-actors,  these  requisites,  not  by  any  means  too 
easy  to  find,  must  be  provided.  And  then  it  is  in  the 
company  of  others,  his  colleagues,  that  his  work  has  to  be 
done.  Consequently  patience,  good  temper,  fairness,  un- 
selfishness, are  qualities  he  will  do  well  to  cultivate,  and 
he  will  lose  nothing,  rather  gain,  by  the  exercise  of  them. 
The  selfish  actor  is  not  a  popular  person,  and,  in  my 
experience,  not  as  a  rule  a  successful  one.  "Give  and 
take,"  in  this  little  world  of  the  theatre,  and  you  will  be 
no  losers  by  it. 

Learn  to  bear  failure  and  criticism  patiently.  They  are 
part  of  the  actor's  lot  in  life.  Critics  are  rarely  animated 
by  any  personal  hostility  in  what  they  may  write  about 
us,  though  we  are  always  inclined  when  we  read  an 
unfavourable  criticism,  to  set  it  down  to  anything  but 
our  own  deserving.  I  heard  a  great  actor  once  say  that 
we  should  never  read  criticisms  of  ourselves  till  a  week 

133 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

after  they  were  written — admirable  counsel — but  I  fear 
we  have  not,  many  of  us,  yet  reached  that  pitch  of  self- 
restraint  that  would  enable  us  to  overcome  our  curiosity 
for  seven  days.  It  is,  however,  a  state  of  equanimity  to 
look  forward  to.  In  the  meantime,  content  yourselves 
with  the  recollection  that  ridicule  and  damning  criticism 
have  been  the  lot  at  some  time  in  their  lives  of  the  most 
famous  actors  and  actresses,  that  the  unfavourable  verdict 
of  to-day  may  be  reversed  to-morrow.  It  is  no  good 
resenting  failure ;  turn  it  to  account  rather  ;  try  to 
understand  it,  and  learn  something  from  it.  The  uses 
of  theatrical  adversity  may  not  be  sweet,  but,  rightly 
understood,  they  may  be  very  salutary. 

Do  not  let  failure  make  you  despond.  Ours  is  a  calling 
of  ups  and  downs ;  it  is  an  advantage  of  its  uncertainty 
that  you  never  know  what  may  happen  next ;  the  darkest 
hour  may  be  very  near  the  dawn.  This  is  where  Bohemian- 
ism,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term,  will  serve  the  actor.  I 
do  not  mean  by  Bohemianism  chronic  intemperance  and 
insolvency ;  I  mean  the  gay  spirit  of  daring  and  enterprise 
that  greets  failure  as  graciously  as  success,  the  love  of 
your  own  calling  and  your  comrades  in  that  calling — a  love 
that,  no  matter  what  your  measure  of  success,  will  ever 
remain  constant  and  enduring  ;  the  recognition  of  the  fact 
that,  as  an  actor,  you  but  consult  your  own  dignity  in 
placing  your  own  calling  as  a  thing  apart,  in  leading  such 
a  life  as  the  necessities  of  that  calling  may  demand,  and 
choosing  your  friends  among  those  who  regard  you  for 
yourself,  not  those  to  whom  an  actor  is  a  social  puppet,  to 
be  taken  up  and  dropped  as  he  happens  for  the  moment 
to  be  more  or  less  prominent  in  the  public  eye.  If  this 
kind  of  Bohemianism  has  some  root  in  your  character,  you 
will  find  the  changes  and  chances  of  your  calling  the  easier 
to  endure. 

Do  not  despond  in  failure,  neither  be  over-exalted  by 
success.  Remember  one  success  is  as  nothing  in  the  history 

134 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

of  an  actor's  career ;  he  has  to  make  many  before  he  can 
lay  claim  to  any  measure  of  fame ;  and  over-confidence,  an 
inability  to  estimate  rightly  the  value  of  a  passing  triumph, 
has  before  now  harmed  incalculably  many  an  actor  or 
actress.  You  will  only  cease  to  learn  your  business  when 
you  quit  it ;  look  on  success  as  but  another  lesson  learnt 
to  be  turned  to  account  in  learning  the  next.  The  art  of 
the  actor  is  no  less  difficult,  no  less  long  in  comparison 
with  life,  than  any  other  art.  In  the  intoxicating  hour 
of  success  let  this  chastening  thought  have  some  place  in 
your  recollection. 

When  you  begin  work  as  actors  or  actresses,  act  when- 
ever you  can  and  whatever  you  can.     Remember  that  the 
great  thing  for  the  actor  is  to  be  seen  as  often  as  possible, 
to  be  before  the  public  as  much  as  he  can,  no  matter  how 
modest  the  part,  how  insignificant  the  production.     It  is 
only  when  an  actor  has  reached  a  position  very  secure  in 
the  public  esteem  that  he  can  afford,  or  that  it  may  be 
his  duty,  to  be  careful  as  to  what  he  undertakes.     But 
before  such  a  time  is  reached  his  one  supreme  object  must 
be  to  get  himself  known  to  the  public,  to  let  them  see  his 
work  under  all  conditions,  until  they  find  something  to 
identify  as  peculiarly  his  own ;  he  should  think  nothing 
too  small  or  unimportant  to  do,  too  tiresome  or  laborious 
to  undergo.     Work  well  and  conscientiously  done  must 
attract  attention  ;  there  is  a  great  deal  of  lolling  and  idle- 
ness among  the  many  thoughtless  and  indifferent  persons 
who  drift  on  to  the  stage  as  the  last  refuge  of  the  negligent 
or  incompetent.     The  stage  will  always  attract  a  certain 
number  of  worthless  recruits  because  it  is  so  easy  to  get 
into  the  theatre  somehow  or  other ;  there  is  no  examina- 
tion to  be  passed,  no  qualification  to  be  proved  before  a 
person  is  entitled  to  call  himself  an  actor.     And  then  the 
life  of  an  actor  is  unfortunately,  in  these  days  of  long  runs, 
one  that  lends  itself  to  a  good  deal  of  idleness  and  waste 
of  time,  unless  a  man  or  woman  be  very  determined  to 

135 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

employ  their  spare  time  profitably.  For  this  reason,  I 
should  advise  any  actor  or  actress,  especially  in  London, 
to  cultivate  some  rational  hobby  or  interest  by  the  side  of 
their  work  ;  for  until  the  time  comes  for  an  actor  to  assume 
the  cares  and  labours  of  management,  he  must  have  a  great 
deal  of  time  on  his  hands  that  can  be  better  employed 
than  in  hanging  about  clubs  or  lolling  in  drawing-rooms. 
At  any  rate,  the  actor  or  actress  who  thinks  no  work  too 
small  to  do,  and  to  do  to  the  utmost  of  his  or  her  ability, 
who  neglects  no  opportunity  that  may  be  turned  to  account 
— and  every  line  he  or  she  speaks  is  an  opportunity — must 
outstrip  those  young  persons  who,  though  they  may  be 
pleased  to  call  themselves  actors  and  actresses,  never  learn 
to  regard  the  theatre  as  anything  but  a  kind  of  enlarged 
back  drawing-room,  in  which  they  are  invited  to  amuse 
themselves  at  an  altogether  inadequate  salary. 

In  regard  to  salary,  when  you  start  in  your  profession, 
do  not  make  money  your  first  consideration  ;  do  not  suffer 
a  few  shillings  or  a  pound  or  two  to  stand  between  you  and 
work.  This  is  a  consideration  you  may  keep  well  in  mind, 
even  when  you  have  achieved  some  measure  of  success. 
Apart  from  the  natural  tendency  of  the  individual  to  place 
a  higher  value  on  his  services  than  that  attached  to  them 
by  others,  it  is  often  well  to  take  something  less  than  you 
ask,  if  the  work  offered  you  is  useful.  Remember  that  the 
public  judge  you  by  your  work  ;  they  know  nothing  and 
care  little  about  what  is  being  paid  you  for  doing  it. 
To  some  people  their  own  affairs  are  of  such  supreme 
importance  that  they  cannot  believe  that  their  personal 
concerns  are  unknown  to,  and  unregarded  by,  the  outside 
world.  The  intensely  personal,  individual  character  of  the 
actor's  work  is  bound  to  induce  a  certain  temptation  to  an 
exaggerated  egotism.  We  are  all  egotists,  and  it  is  right 
that  we  should  be,  up  to  a  point.  But  I  would  urge  the 
young  actor  or  actress  to  be  always  on  the  watch  against 
developing,  especially  in  success,  an  extreme  egotism  which 

136 


THE   CALLING   OF  THE   ACTOR 

induces  a  selfishness  of  outlook,  an  egregious  vanity  that 
in  the  long  run  weakens  the  character,  induces  disappoint- 
ment and  discontent,  and  bores  to  extinction  other  persons. 
Disraeli  on  one  occasion,  when  asked  to  speak  words  of 
pregnant  wisdom  to  the  small  child  of  an  admirer,  laid  his 
hand  on  the  infant's  head,  and  said,  "  My  dear  child,  never 
ask  who  cut  off  the  head  of  King  Charles  I.,  or  wrote 
The  Letters  of  Junius ;  for,  if  you  do,  people  will  regard 
you  as  a  bore,  and  that  is  the  worst  thing  that  can  befall 
any   man.1'     I   cannot   help   thinking   that   had   Disraeli 
encountered  some  of  those  actors  and  actresses  whose  one 
absorbing  topic  is  themselves,  their  careers,  their  futures, 
their  triumphs,  and  their  grievances,  he  would  have  said, 
"  Do  by  all  means  ask  who  cut  off  Charles  I.'s  head,  or  who 
wrote  The  Letters  of  Junius  ;  study  the  questions  exhaus- 
tively, and  talk  about  them  at  every  opportunity  ;  anything, 
any  subject,  however  trite  or  well  worn,  would  be  preferable 
to  the  very  limited  and  comparatively  uninteresting  topic 
of  yourself."     I  would  not  for  one  moment  advise  an  actor 
never  to  talk  "  shop  "  ;  it  is  a  great  mistake  to  think  that 
men  and  women  should  never  talk  in  public  or  private 
about  the  thing  to  which  they  devote  their  lives ;  people, 
as  a  rule,  are  most  interesting  on  the  subject  of  their  own 
particular  business  in  life.     Talk  about  the  affairs  of  the 
theatre  within  reason,  and  with  due  regard  to  the  amenities 
of  polite  conversation,  but  do  not  confuse  the  affairs  of  the 
theatre,    broadly  speaking,  with  your  own.     The  one  is 
lasting,  general ;  the  other  particular  and  fleeting.     "  II  n'y 
a  pas  de  Thomme   necessaire."     Many  persons  would  be 
strangely   surprised  if  they  could  see  how  rapidly  their 
place  is  filled  after  they  are  gone,  no  matter  how  consider- 
able their  achievement.     It  may  not  be  filled  in  the  same 
way,  as  well,  as  fittingly,  but  it  will  be  filled,  and  humanity 
will   content   itself  very  fairly   well  with  the   substitute. 
This  is  especially  true  of  the  work  of  the  actor.     He  can 
but  live  as  a  memory,  and  memory  is  proverbially  short. 

137 


The  True  Story  of  Eugene  Aram 


139 


THE    TRUE     STORY    OF    EUGENE 
ARAM1 

THE  poet,  the  novelist,  and  the  dramatist  have  vied  with 
one  another  in  lending  the  charm  of  romance  to  the  history 
of  Eugene  Aram  ;  love  and  remorse  have  spread  their 
becoming  cloaks  over  his  misdeeds  ;  the  commonplace  of 
fiction  has  adorned  the  commonplace  of  fact.  But  it  not 
infrequently  happens  that,  in  disengaging  fact  from  fable, 
the  plain  truth  from  the  attractive  lie,  real  circumstances 
come  to  light  as  interesting  and  extraordinary  as  any  that 
can  be  invented  by  the  imagination  of  the  story-teller. 
To  record  as  distinct  and  yet  present  in  the  one  man  the 
attributes  of  the  thoughtful  and  gifted  scholar  and  those 
of  the  sordid  and  deliberate  murderer  must  surely  yield 
a  more  profitable  and  singular  result  than  the  endeavour 
to  blend  the  two  into  a  sympathetic  whole,  by  melting 
together  in  the  crucible  of  lachrymose  heroism  those  dis- 
crepancies which  lie  at  the  very  root  of  character,  and 
everlastingly  mock  the  efforts  of  the  methodical  biographer 
to  force  consistency  upon  the  inconsistent. 

Eugene  Aram  was  born  at  Netherdale,  in  Yorkshire,  in 
the  year  1704.  His  father  was  a  gardener,  but  a  gardener 
of  more  than  ordinary  skill ;  he  possessed  a  remarkable 
knowledge  of  botany,  and  was  an  excellent  draughtsman. 
He  had  originally  been  in  the  service  of  Dr.  Compton,  the 
Bishop  of  London,  famous  for  his  resistance  to  James  II., 
and,  on  leaving  the  bishop,  had  gone  into  the  service  of 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Nineteenth  Century. 
141 


THE  TRUE   STORY 

Sir  Edward  Blackett,  at  Newby,  in  Yorkshire.  Yorkshire 
was  the  native  county  of  the  Arams,  who  had  not  always 
been  gardeners.  Their  name  they  derived  from  the  village  of 
Aram  or  Haram,  on  the  south  bank  of  the  Tees.  In  the  reign 
of  Edward  III.  the  family  was  possessed  of  three  knights1 
fees  near  Newark.  They  woula  seem  to  have  gradually 
gone  further  south  until  one  Aram  is  found  a  professor  of 
divinity  at  Oxford ;  another,  whom  Eugene  saw,  a  Commis- 
sioner of  the  Salt  Tax  under  Queen  Anne,  living  at  his  seat 
in  Hertfordshire.  The  branch  to  which  Eugene  belonged, 
and  which  had  apparently  remained  in  Yorkshire,  must 
have  fallen  from  the  high  estate  of  their  ancestors,  or  had 
never  emerged  like  the  others  from  their  original  obscurity. 
The  first  is  the  more  likely  supposition ;  for  Eugene 
Aram,  though  driven  by  circumstances  to  associate  with 
the  shopkeepers  and  ale-drapers  of  Yorkshire  villages,  was 
always  feared  and  respected  as  a  very  high,  proud  man, 
solitary  and  retiring.  He  was  himself  fully  conscious  of 
his  superiority  in  respect  of  birth  and  lineage,  for  it  is  to 
his  investigations  that  we  owe  these  details  of  his  ancestry; 
and  his  assiduous  study  of  antiquities  makes  his  information 
on  this  point  the  more  reliable.  His  portrait,  too,  in  The 
Newgate  Calendar,  said  by  those  who  had  seen  him  to  be  a 
very  accurate  likeness,  shows  a  face  in  which  there  is  little 
trace  of  the  rough  and  homely ;  and  throughout  his  life  he 
seems  to  have  attracted  the  regard  and  confidence  of  those 
whose  stations  in  life  were  above  his  own. 

Whilst  working  at  Newby  with  Sir  Edward  Blackett, 
Eugene's  father  had  bought  a  little  house  at  Bondgate, 
near  Ripon,  in  which  he  installed  his  wife  and  child,  visit- 
ing them  in  his  intervals  of  leisure.  Here  Eugene  was  sent 
to  school  and  instructed  in  the  Testament.  At  the  age  of 
fourteen  he  joined  his  father  at  Newby,  and,  with  the  help 
of  Sir  Edward  Blackett,  who  seems  to  have  been  attracted 
by  his  intelligence  and  zeal  for  study,  entered  upon  that 
career  of  intense  and  unwearied  application  to  various 

142 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

branches  of  learning  on  which  rests  his  real  claim  to 
honourable  recognition,  and  which  only  the  misfortune 
of  circumstance  has  rendered  fruitless  of  a  great  result. 
He  first  applied  himself  to  mathematics,  and,  self-taught, 
mastered  the  ghastly  problems  of  the  higher  algebra. 
But  his  studies  were  interrupted  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
by  his  being  sent  to  London  to  fill  the  place  of  bookkeeper 
in  the  counting-house  of  a  relative  of  Sir  Edward's,  a 
Mr.  Christopher  Blackett.  After  remaining  two  years  in 
the  counting-house  Aram  was  attacked  by  a  very  severe 
form  of  small-pox.  His  mother's  anxiety  was  so  great  at 
her  son's  illness  that  she  was  only  prevented  from  journey- 
ing to  London  by  Eugene's  giving  up  the  counting-house 
and  returning  home.  Here  the  young  man  resumed  his 
mathematical  studies,  and  at  the  same  time  dived  into 
poetry,  history,  and  antiquities.  But  these  new  mistresses 
quite  seduced  him  from  his  boyish  love ;  poor  mathematics 
were  cruelly  deserted  :  "  The  charms  of  the  other  three," 
he  writes,  "  quite  destroyed  all  the  heavier  beauties  of 
numbers  and  lines,  whose  applications  and  properties  I  now 
pursued  no  longer." 

As  the  time  had  come  when  Eugene  must  choose  a  pro- 
fession, he  settled  upon  that  of  a  schoolmaster  as  the  one 
for  which  he  was  best  fitted.  With  that  intention  he 
returned  to  Netherdale,  his  birthplace,  and  there  engaged 
himself  as  teacher  in  the  village  school.  At  Netherdale, 
according  to  Aram,  he  committed  the  first  great  error  of 
his  life,  took  the  first  unfortunate  step  which  started  him 
on  his  progress  to  the  gibbet — he  married.  Of  his  wife's 
family  nothing  is  known,  except  that  Aram  thought  her 
very  much  beneath  him,  shunned  her  in  the  street,  and 
never  spoke  to  her  in  public.  Those  who  remembered  her 
described  her  as  a  tidy  little  body,  a  very  weak,  soft  kind 
of  woman,  to  whom  Aram  made  an  indifferent  husband, 
a  kind  of  woman  who  can  hardly  have  affected  the  destiny 
of  Aram  so  powerfully  as  he  afterwards  asked  his  friencfs 

143 


THE   TRUE   STORY 

to  believe.  One  friend,  more  indiscreet  and  reckless  than 
the  rest,  speaks  of  Mrs.  Aram  as  low,  mean,  and  vulgar, 
unworthy  the  lofty  intellect  of  her  husband,  for  whom  a 
Newton  and  Erasmus  could  alone  have  been  worthy  com- 
panions. But  we  shall  see  that  the  sublime  visionary 
could  stoop  at  times — and  for  purposes  of  his  own — to 
society  that  would  have  been  very  distasteful  to  Newton  or 
Erasmus,  and  far  lower  and  meaner  than  that  of  his  vulgar 
wife.  Not  that  this  inconsistency  should  be  any  reproach 
to  Aram,  for  it  is  always  the  privilege  of  a  husband  to 
suffer  in  his  companions  what  he  resents  in  his  wife  ;  but, 
when  we  are  confronted  with  the  high  pride  of  the  profound 
and  solitary  scholar  shocked  and  wounded  by  the  vulgarity 
of  the  tidy  little  body,  we  must  make  very  sure  that  the 
high  pride  is  not  selfish  vanity,  and  the  domestic  picture 
presented  the  canting  old  story  of  the  great  man  who  is 
unhappy  and  unappreciated  at  home. 

Whatever  the  joys  or  disappointments  of  his  early 
married  life,  Aram's  zeal  for  learning  was  increased  ten- 
fold. A  consciousness  of  his  deficiencies  which  he  acquired 
as  soon  as  he  began  to  teach  others,  and  an  irresistible 
covetousness  for  knowledge,  drove  him  to  unexampled 
industry.  He  taught  himself  English  and  Greek  grammar 
from  Lilly  and  Camden  by  learning  the  entire  books  by 
heart.  He  then  entered  on  Latin,  puzzling  out  the  mean- 
ing of  the  language  for  himself,  spending  sometimes  a 
whole  day  over  five  lines  and  never  leaving  a  passage  till 
he  had  perfectly  comprehended  it.  Then  followed  the 
Greek  Testament,  of  which  he  parsed  every  word  as  he 
proceeded.  When  he  had  done  this  he  felt  himself  strong 
enough  to  read  Hesiod,  Homer,  Theocritus,  Herodotus, 
and  Thucydides.  These  labours,  the  achievements  be  it 
remembered  of  a  self-taught,  comparatively  uneducated 
man,  occupied  some  ten  years.  In  the  study  of  language 
he  had  hit  on  the  true  bent  of  his  intellect,  the  department 
of  learning  in  which  he  could  hope  to  achieve  something  ; 

144 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

and  neither  change  of  place  nor  force  of  circumstances 
ever  from  this  moment  hindered  his  continual  researches. 

When,  in  1734,  "William  Norton,  Esquire,"  his  friend, 
sent  a  horse  and  man  to  fetch  the  learned  schoolmaster  to 
Knaresborough,  the  change  of  scene  only  meant  a  change 
of  study ;  Hebrew  succeeded  Greek,  and  he  began  to 
go  through  the  Pentateuch  in  the  original  tongue  as  at 
Netherdale  he  had  gone  through  the  Greek  Testament. 
And,  he  writes,  he  would  have  done  more  during  the  ten 
years  he  kept  the  school  at  Knaresborough  if  other  things 
had  not  encroached  on  his  time. 

What  were  those  other  things  ?  There  was  the  school, 
there  was  a  family  of  six  children,  and  there  was  pecuniary 
embarrassment.  The  ten  years'"  schoolmastering  in  Knares- 
borough had  not  been  profitable  ;  by  the  end  of  the  year 
1744  Aram  had  mortgaged  the  house  at  Bondgate  which 
he  had  inherited  from  his  father,  and  owed  a  considerable 
sum  of  money  to  his  friend  Mr.  Norton,  who  had  probably 
put  him  into  the  school  in  the  first  instance.  But,  in  the 
face  of  subsequent  events,  the  question  suggests  itself, 
Had  these  debts  arisen  only  from  the  failure  of  the 
school  ?  Was  Aram^s  course  of  life  during  these  ten  years 
confined  to  the  study  of  Hebrew  and  to  the  instruction  of 
the  youth  of  Knaresborough  ?  There  is  mystery  surround- 
ing these  ten  years  at  Knaresborough.  In  1744,  without 
a  word  of  warning  or  preparation,  without  a  hint  as  to  the 
development  of  such  a  catastrophe,  we  find  Aram,  the 
solitary  student,  the  man  of  high  pride,  who  cannot  even 
condescend  to  acknowledge  his  wife  in  the  street,  this  man 
of  learning,  respected  by  all  classes — by  the  lettered  for  the 
real  depths  of  his  acquirements,  by  the  unlettered  for 
the  enormous  profundity  of  thought  which  in  their  eyes 
constant  solitude  betokens — we  find  this  same  Aram  the 
associate  of  the  lowest  villains  in  the  perpetration  of  a 
monstrous  fraud,  and  the  accomplice  of  the  greatest  villain 
of  them  all  in  the  murder  of  their  fellow-conspirator. 

145  L 


THE   TRUE   STORY 

Next  door  to  Aram^s  school  in  Knaresborough,  was  the 
shop  of  a  flax-dresser  by  the  name  of  Richard  Houseman. 
This  Houseman  was  a  dark,  ill-looking  fellow,  liroad-srt, 
round-shouldered,  and  wearing  a  brown   wig,  "  the  real 
picture  of  a  murderer,1'1  a^  a  neighbour  described  him.    His 
only  companion  in  his  flax-dressing  was  a  large  black  raven 
that  perched  itself  at  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  into  his 
shop.    He  was  looked  upon  as  belonging  to  the  thoroughly 
bad  set  in  Knaresborough,  a  set  which   included  Daniel 
Clarke    the    shoemaker,   Terry  the   ale-draper,    lies   the 
usurer,  and  Levi  the  Jew.      These   men   were  regarded 
by  the  good   people  of  Knaresborough  as  equal  to  any 
villainy.     When,  at  the  beginning  of  1744,  a  Jew  pedlar 
boy  who  travelled  with  jewelry  in  the  neighbourhood  dis- 
appeared, report  said  that  Houseman  and  Daniel  Clarke 
had  murdered  him.    That  may  or  may  not  have  been ;  but 
certain  it  is  that  about  this  time  Houseman  and  Clarke 
had  hit  on  a  very  much  more  profitable  form  of  enterprise 
than  murdering  a  pedlar  boy  for  a  few  trumpery  provincial 
trinkets.     The  new  scheme  was  no  rough-and-ready  high- 
way murder,  such  as  might  spring  from  the  brain  of  the 
flax-dresser  or  the  shoemaker ;  it  was  a  subtle  and  ingenious 
fraud,  and  argues  the  presence  of  a  superior  intellect  in  the 
councils  of  the  criminals.     This  was  the  scheme  :  Clarke 
had  married  a  wife  who  was  possessed  of  a  fortune  of 
£200 ;  the  money  remained  for  the  present  in  the  hands 
of  her  relatives,  who  seem  to  have  been  unwilling  to  give 
it  up  until  they  were  satisfied  that  Clarke  was  a  man  of 
some  substance,  and  not  an  impecunious  person  who  would 
spend  his  wife's  fortune  as  soon  as  she  got  it.     Clarke  and 
his  advisers  saw  in  this  reluctance  of  the  relatives  to  part 
with  the  fortune  a  means  of  securing  not  only  the  £200, 
but  a  substantial  sum  of  money  in  addition  to  it.     On  the 
strength  of  his  wife's  reputed  fortune  on  the  one  hand,  and 
to  impress  the  reluctant  relatives  on  the  other  with  an  idea 
of  his  substance,  Clarke  was  to  order  from  various  trades- 

146 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

men  plate,  linen,  jewelry,  watches,  rings,  and  other  articles. 
On  the  strength  of  these  extensive  purchases,  which  would 
argue  substantial  means,  the  relatives  would  part  with  the 
money.  As  soon  as  Clarke  had  the  money  and  the  unpaid 
goods  on  his  hands,  he  was  to  disappear  with  his  share  of 
the  booty,  leaving  the  rest  in  the  hands  of  his  confederates. 
The  guilt  of  the  fraud  would  thus  attach  to  Clarke  alone, 
who  would  be  safe  away,  while  his  accomplices  would  wait 
a  convenient  time  to  realise  their  shares  of  the  profit. 
This  plan,  excellent  in  itself,  is  only  imperfect  as  regards 
Clarke,  who  is  condemned  thereby  to  a  perpetual  exile, 
whilst  his  fnends  remain  at  home  rejoicing.  However,  he 
appears  to  have  been  weak  enough  to  have  accepted  it, 
and  to  have  been  prepared  to  say  good-bye  to  Knares- 
borough  for  ever. 

Such  was  the  main  plot ;  but  there  was  an  under-plot 
also,  in  which  Daniel  Clarke's  part  called  for  an  even 
greater  sacrifice  and  a  more  compendious  farewell.  As 
soon  as  the  fraud  was  accomplished,  the  booty  in  Clarke's 
hands,  Houseman  and  the  third  party,  the  latest  recruit 
in  the  rascality  of  Knaresborough,  were  to  murder  the  shoe- 
maker and  share  among  two  instead  of  three  Mrs.  Clarke's 
money  and  the  unpaid  articles.  The  disappearance  of 
Clarke  and  his  property  would  favour  with  the  public  the 
idea  that  he  had  absconded,  and  so  divert  suspicion  from 
his  murderers. 

His  murderers !  Richard  Houseman  and  Eugene  Aram ! 
For  it  was  the  schoolmaster  who  had  joined  the  flax-dresser 
and  the  shoemaker  in  their  latest  venture,  and,  with  his 
neighbour  Houseman,  was  to  remove  Daniel  Clarke  out 
of  harm's  way.  Somehow  or  other — in  what  exact  manner 
it  is  impossible  to  say — the  studious  recluse  had  drifted 
into  an  alliance  with  the  murderous-looking  shopkeeper 
next  door,  and  had  become  sufficiently  intimate  with  him 
to  engage  in  the  darkest  of  his  designs.  Aram  had  made 
Clarke's  acquaintance  in  his  love  of  botany ;  Clarke  was  a 

147 


THE   TRUE   STORY 

skilled  florist,  and  he  and  Aram  spent  many  delightful 
hours  in  scaring  away  cats  from  the  schoolmaster's  garden. 
In  these  hours  it  may  have  been  that  Aram  learnt  some- 
thing of  his  companion's  projects,  and  was  perhaps  through 
him  introduced  to  Houseman.  Himself  under  the  stress 
of  financial  difficulties,  he  saw  in  the  rude  designs  of  these 
rascals  a  means  of  relieving  his  own  embarrassments,  and, 
in  the  perfection  of  an  intelligent  plan,  built  up  murder  on 
robbery.  "  Mankind  is  never  corrupted  at  once  ;  villainy 
is  progressive  and  declines  from  right,  step  by  step,  till 
every  regard  of  probity  is  lost,  and  every  sense  of  all  moral 
obligation  perishes/''  Thus  spake  Eugene  Aram  in  his  own 
defence,  and  certainly,  in  his  case,  these  downward  steps 
are  hidden  from  us ;  suddenly,  to  our  infinite  amazement, 
the  callous  murderer  emerges  from  the  pensive  seclusion  of 
the  student. 

Aram  has  not,  however,  left  us  without  any  apology. 
After  his  conviction  and  sentence,  he  told  the  clergyman 
who  visited  him,  that  he  murdered  Clarke  because  he 
suspected  him  of  an  intrigue  with  his  wife,  and  that  at 
the  time  he  considered  he  was  doing  right.  Either  Aram 
is  here  telling  the  truth,  or,  on  the  threshold  of  death, 
deliberately  blackening  his  wife's  character  to  justify  his 
own  conduct.  He  can  only  be  judged  in  this  circum- 
stantially. Whilst  local  report  is  silent  as  to  any  connec- 
tion between  Clarke  and  Mrs.  Aram,  it  is  not  silent  on  the 
unfeeling  indifference  with  which  she  was  treated  by  her 
husband — an  indifference  which  makes  his  sensitiveness  as 
to  her  moral  conduct  rather  fantastic.  The  Gentleman's 
Magazine  of  1759,  the  year  of  his  execution,  describes  his 
conduct  towards  her  as  inhuman.  The  murder  of  Clarke, 
too,  is  surrounded  by  circumstances  that,  to  a  great  extent, 
soil  its  character  as  an  act  of  retribution  on  the  part  of  a 
wronged  husband.  His  devoted  apologist  says  that  all  his 
children  but  one  took  after  their  mother,  and  that  con- 
sequently Aram  never  considered  them  as  his  own — a 

148 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

rather  severe  conclusion.  Vanity,  if  it  does  not  cause 
crime,  seldom  fails  to  accompany  it,  for  there  is  no  surer 
extinguisher  of  remorse.  If,  in  his  early  treatment  of  his 
wife,  Aram's  vanity  of  birth  and  talent  made  him  shun 
her  in  the  public  place,  and  asperse  his  children  for  their 
likeness  to  their  mother,  may  not  the  same  presumptuous 
vanity  that  wrote  on  the  eve  of  his  execution  the  lines : 

Calm  and  composed  my  soul  her  journey  takes, 
No  guilt  that  troubles  and  no  heart  that  aches, 

have  prompted  him  to  preserve  his  reputation  among  men, 
by  vilifying  the  reputation  of  a  woman  whom  to  the  very 
last  he  treated  with  dislike  and  contempt  ? 

The  best  apology  offered  on  Aram's  behalf  comes  from 
an  admirer  who,  comparing  him  with  Houseman,  exclaims  : 
"  How  much  greater  the  temptation  to  murder  to  a  man 
like  Aram,  with  a  miserable  wife  and  six  children,  than  to 
a  wretch  like  Houseman,  who  could  carry  all  his  family 
under  his  hat ! "  There  is  a  greater  semblance  of  truth  in 
this  excuse  than  in  the  plea  of  the  faithless  wife. 

By  February  7th,  1745,  Clarke,  Houseman,  and  Aram 
had,  in  pursuance  of  their  plan,  procured  the  goods,  plate, 
linen,  and  jewelry  from  various  tradesmen,  and  Mrs. 
Clarke's  money  from  her  relatives ;  the  following  day 
Clarke  was  to  quit  Knaresborough  with  his  share.  But, 
before  doing  so,  the  spoil  had  to  be  divided,  and  for  that 
purpose  Aram  and  Houseman  invited  Clarke  to  come  with 
them  to  St.  Robert's  Cave,  outside  Knaresborough,  where 
the  division  could  be  made  in  greater  secrecy.  About  six 
o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  7th,  Aram  came  home  and 
told  his  wife  to  light  a  good  fire  in  the  room  upstairs.  He 
then  went  out  and  did  not  return  until  two  in  the  morning 
with  Clarke  and  Houseman.  Something  had  happened  to 
Houseman's  wig,  for  Aram  asked  his  wife  for  a  handker- 
chief to  tie  about  "Dicky's"  head.  They  did  not  stop 
long ;  Clarke  was  impatient  to  be  gone ;  "  It  will  soon  be 

149 


THE   TRUE   STORY 

morning ;  we  must  get  off,"  he  said.  The  three  men  went 
out,  and  Mrs.  Aram  saw  that  Clarke  carried  a  sack  on 
his  back. 

At  four  o'clock — two  hours  after — Houseman  and  Aram 
returned,  but  this  time  without  Clarke.  They  came 
upstairs  to  the  room  where  the  fire  was.  Mrs.  Aram 
asked  what  had  become  of  Clarke,  to  which  Aram  replied 
by  telling  her  to  go  to  bed.  She  refused,  and  the  two 
men,  who  seemed  to  be  very  anxious  to  have  the  fire  to 
themselves,  were  obliged  to  go  downstairs  and  light 
another.  Filled  with  misgiving,  Mrs.  Aram  determined 
to  find  out  the  nature  of  this  mysterious  business.  As 
she  descended  the  stairs,  she  heard  Houseman  say,  "  She 
is  coming."  "  Well  not  let  her,"  answered  Aram.  "  If 
she  does,  she'll  tell,"  said  Houseman.  "  What  can  she 
tell  ? "  replied  her  husband,  "  poor  simple  thing !  she 
knows  nothing ! "  to  which  Houseman  made  answer,  "  If 
she  tells  that  I  am  here,  that  will  be  enough ! "  Aram 
offered  to  hold  the  door  to  prevent  her  coming  in,  a 
suggestion  that  by  no  means  satisfied  Houseman ;  if  she 
did  not  tell  then,  he  urged,  she  might  at  some  other  time. 
This  reasoning  quite  dissipated  Aram's  amiable  scruples. 
"  We  will  coax  her  a  little  till  her  passion  be  off,"  he  said, 
"  and  then  take  an  opportunity  to  shoot  her."  Mrs.  Aram 
had  heard  enough ;  she  crept  upstairs  and,  terrified  out  of 
her  wits,  waited  until  seven  o'clock,  when  she  heard  the 
two  men  go  out.  As  soon  as  they  had  gone  Mrs.  Aram 
came  downstairs  again  and  closely  examined  the  fireplace. 
There  were  only  ashes  in  the  grate  then  ;  but  on  the 
dunghill  outside  she  found  some  burnt  wearing  apparel, 
and  the  handkerchief  she  had  lent  Dicky  to  tie  round  his 
head,  now  bloodstained.  She  could  not  help  concluding 
from  this  that  something  bad  had  happened  to  Clarke  ; 
but  when  she  expressed  this  natural  misgiving  to  Dicky, 
he  was  surprised,  and  could  not  imagine  what  she  meant. 

She  was  right  all  the  same,  in  spite  of  Dicky's  amaze- 

150 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

ment.  Between  two  and  four  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
February  8th,  1745,  Daniel  Clarke  had  been  murdered  by 
Aram  and  Houseman,  and  his  body  buried  in  St.  Robert's 
Cave.  How  he  was  killed,  or  who  struck  the  fatal  blow, 
is  uncertain ;  each  man  charged  the  other  with  actually 
breaking  Clarke's  skull,  but  to  Aram  in  all  probability 
belongs  the  credit  of  that  performance.  At  any  rate,  from 
Mrs.  Aram's  account,  it  is  clear  that  both  participated  in 
the  crime,  and  from  the  ordering  of  the  fire  by  Aram  at  six 
on  the  evening  of  the  7th,  and  the  use  to  which  the  fire 
was  subsequently  put,  it  is  also  clear  that,  whatever  the 
motive  or  variety  of  motives,  the  crime  was  premeditated. 

When  Clarke's  disappearance  became  known  in  Knares- 
borough,  and  the  fraud  that  had  been  practised  in  con- 
nection with  it,  Aram  and  Houseman  did  not  escape 
suspicion.  In  order  that  Aram  might  not  be  out  of  the 
way  if  he  were  wanted,  he  was  arrested  for  the  debt  he 
owed  to  Norton ;  and  the  public  was  hardly  reassured 
when  he  promptly  obtained  release  by  paying  off  the  debt, 
and  also  the  mortgage  on  the  house  at  Bondgate.  In 
addition  to  these  peculiar  circumstances,  some  of  the 
goods  obtained  by  Clarke  were  found  buried  in  Aram's 
and  Houseman's  gardens.  Once  more  the  law  laid  hands 
on  the  schoolmaster,  and  charged  him  with  a  misdemeanour 
in  the  matter  of  Clarke's  fraudulent  proceedings  ;  but  Aram 
was  discharged  in  a  short  time  for  want  of  sufficient 
evidence.  As  soon  as  he  was  released,  he  hastily  quitted 
Knaresborough  without  even  waiting  to  take  advantage  of 
his  redeemed  mortgage  on  the  Bondgate  house,  leaving 
behind  him  his  wife  and  family  to  shift  as  best  they  could. 
There  was  no  repose  for  etymological  study  in  Knares- 
borough, with  that  ugly  reminiscence  mouldering  in  St. 
Robert's  Cave. 

The  next  fourteen  years  of  Aram's  life,  from  his  quitting 
Knaresborough  in  1745  to  his  execution  at  York  in  1759, 
were  the  years  during  which,  in  spite  of  frequent  wander- 

151 


THE   TRUE   STORY 

ings  and  changes  of  scene  and  occupation,  he  completed 
his  study  of  language  and  lighted  on  the  etymological 
discovery  which,  if  not  original,  as  he  himself  admitted, 
was  at  least  the  realisation  of  a  truth  at  that  time  unima- 
gined  or  unappreciated  by  his  contemporaries.  London 
was  the  first  resting-place  of  the  wandering  scholar.  Here 
he  remained  for  two  years  and  a  half,  as  usher  at  a  school 
in  Piccadilly  kept  by  a  Mr.  Painblanc.  This  gentleman, 
he  says,  in  addition  to  a  salary,  further  rewarded  his 
services  by  teaching  the  eager  linguist  French.  In  London 
Aram  found  means  of  realising  what  was  left  to  him  of 
the  Clarke  booty  ;  his  profits  from  that  transaction  are 
said  to  have  amounted  to  about  j?160,  of  which  he  must 
have  already  spent  a  considerable  portion  in  meeting  his 
liabilities  at  Knaresborough.  On  leaving  Mr.  Painblanc, 
Aram  went  to  a  school  at  Hayes,  where  he  was  engaged 
as  writing-master.  He  remained  there  some  three  or  four 
years,  after  which  he  spent  short  periods  at  various  other 
schools  in  the  south  of  England,  returning  finally  to 
London.  His  circumstances  at  this  time  can  have  been 
far  from  prosperous,  for  on  his  second  visit  to  London  we 
find  him  earning  money  by  transcribing  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment for  registration  in  Chancery.  Ultimately  he  got  an 
engagement  as  usher  at  the  free  grammar  school  of  Lynn  in 
Norfolk,  where,  at  the  end  of  seven  months,  he  was  arrested 
for  the  crime  he  had  committed  fourteen  years  before. 

It  is  this  period,  between  the  murder  and  his  arrest, 
that  has  been  seized  on  by  writers  of  fiction  as  a  period 
of  remorse  and  mental  agony,  made  more  poignant  and 
terrible  by  the  added  distresses  of  a  great  passion.  Of  the 
latter  no  trace  is  to  be  found  except  in  the  scandalous 
whispers  of  Lynn  that  accuse  the  usher  of  living  there 
with  a  young  lady  he  described  as  his  niece,  but  who,  on 
his  departure  thence,  was  discovered  to  have  been  his 
mistress.  Scatcherd,  the  rhapsodical  apologist  already 
alluded  to,  indignantly  repudiates  this  anecdote,  and 

152 


OF   EUGENE   ARAM 

refutes  it  by  declaring  that  the  pseudo-niece  was  no  other 
than  his  ever  faithful  and  devoted  daughter  Sally,  who 
accompanied  him  through  all  his  wanderings,  and,  after 
her  father's  death,  was  so  overcome  with  despair  that  her 
morals  forsook  her  and  she  became  the  mistress  of  a  gentle- 
man in  London.  From  this  dire  situation  she  was  rescued 
by  an  honest  publican  in  the  Westminster  Bridge  Road, 
who  married  her.  Of  her  father  she  ever  entertained 
devoted  and  loving  memories,  believing  that  his  dear  spirit 
"  was  traversing  the  Elysian  fields  with  the  kindred  shades 
of  his  beloved  Homer  and  Virgil." 

In  the  letter  Aram  wrote  describing  his  wanderings 
he  is  silent  as  to  his  daughter's  companionship ;  indeed, 
the  story  of  his  niece  at  Lynn  is  the  only  possible  reference 
to  it.  Those  who  remember  his  arrest  and  his  arrival  at 
Knaresborough  say  nothing  of  any  companion  ;  and  Sally's 
rapturous  visions  of  the  Elysian  fields  has  a  suspicious 
flavour  of  the  gushing  Scatcherd.  Aram  was  a  man  of 
forty  when  he  left  Knaresborough,  fifty-four  at  the  time 
of  his  execution.  The  extent  of  his  studies  and  the  re- 
collections of  the  few  who  have  any  remembrance  of  the 
usher  suggest  rather  the  moody  scholar  of  Hood's  poem 
than  the  passionate  youth  of  Bulwer  Lytton. 

But  on  the  remorseful  tortures  of  the  Aram  of  "  The 
Dream"  history  is  silent.  Such  evidence  as  exists  of 
Aram's  bearing  after  the  murder  and  during  the  time 
of  his  trial  and  punishment  points,  not  to  a  man  of  in- 
trinsically noble  nature  riven  by  the  pangs  of  sorrow  for 
a  crime  committed  under  the  stress  of  a  dire  temptation, 
but  to  a  cold  and  deliberate  murderer  justifying  his  act  to 
himself  by  a  kind  of  sentimental  vanity  which  does  not 
hesitate  before  slander  and  falsehood  to  accomplish  its 
pitiful  end.  There  is  not  in  Aram's  conduct,  from  the 
moment  of  his  return  to  Knaresborough,  a  prisoner  charged 
with  murder,  the  slightest  evidence  of  any  feeling  of  re- 
morse. He  is  calm,  confident  of  his  acquittal,  unmoved 

153 


THE  TRUE  STORY 

altogether  by  the  painful  circumstance  of  his  situation  ; 
and  when,  after  his  sentence,  all  hope  of  earthly  salvation 
is  at  an  end,  he  contemplates  with  sublime  self-composure 
the  approaching  journey  of  his  calm  and  guiltless  soul. 
If,  during  fourteen  years  of  absence  from  the  scene  of  his 
crime,  his  first  feelings  of  remorse  had  become  dulled, 
surely  they  would  have  returned  with  all  their  former 
acuteness  when  the  hour  of  expiation  had  arrived. 

Study,  continuous  and  unwearied,  was  always  with  him 
in  his  years  of  exile.  From  the  French  taught  him  by 
Mr.  Painblanc  he  passed  to  Chaldee  and  Arabic,  con- 
cluding with  Celtic.  When  he  had  completed  the  study 
of  the  last-named  language  and  had  compared  some  three 
thousand  words  in  that  tongue  with  their  equivalents  in 
the  Latin,  Greek,  and  other  languages,  he  was  able  to 
determine  the  affinity  of  the  Celtic  with  the  other  Euro- 
pean languages,  and,  by  recognising  this  truth,  to  raise 
himself  from  The  Newgate  Calendar  into  every  respectable 
biographical  dictionary.  All  his  papers,  all  the  written 
records  of  his  work,  are  lost,  but  his  claim  to  recognition 
in  this  respect  has  never  been  disputed. 

His  interest  in  botany,  to  which  he  owed  his  acquaintance 
with  his  victim  Clarke,  continued  with  him  during  his 
wanderings,  and  in  the  Botanical  Gardens  at  Chelsea  he 
spent  many  delightful  and  instructive  hours.  A  gentleman 
who  used  sometimes  to  accompany  Aram  on  his  visits  to 
Chelsea  remembers  the  humane  solicitude  with  which  he 
would  remove  from  the  path  any  snail  or  worm  for  fear  of 
treading  on  it — a  delightful  trait.  But  Eugene  Aram 
is  not  the  first  scoundrel  who  has  found  smashing  in  a 
man^s  head  quite  consistent  with  kindness  to  dumb  animals  ; 
people,  the  inferiority  of  whose  natures  has  prevented  them 
from  finding  any  good  in  their  fellow-men,  are  very  apt  to 
believe  that  true  human  nature  resides  only  in  cats  and  dogs. 
Lynn  was  the  last  resting-place  of  Eugene  Aram  before 
the  final  catastrophe.  He  is  better  remembered  here  than 

154 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

anywhere  else.  He  is  spoken  of  as  sullen  and  reserved 
straying  alone  among  the  flat  uninteresting  marshes  by 
the  river  Ouse,  dressed  in  a  horseman's  great  coat,  a  great 
flapped  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes  ;  and — a  singular  pecu- 
liarity— if  he  heard  any  noise  behind  him,  he  would  not 
merely  turn  his  head,  but  swing  himself  round  bodily,  as  if 
to  confront  an  enemy.  After  Aram's  arrest  the  head  master 
of  the  grammar  school  recollected  meeting  the  usher  one 
night  outside  his  bedroom  door  under  very  suspicious  cir- 
cumstances, and  ever  after  congratulated  himself  on  a  lucky 
escape  from  murder ;  but  the  boys  liked  Aram  very  well,  and 
he  made  a  good  many  friends  among  the  neighbouring  gentry. 

He  was  stopping  one  day  with  a  Dr.  Weatherhead,  a 
parson  living  near  Lynn.  It  was  a  winter's  morning  ;  but 
Aram,  always  devoted  to  plants  and  flowers,  was  out  in  the 
garden  helping  the  doctor  with  his  flower-beds.  Whilst 
they  were  engaged  in  this  occupation,  a  horse-dealer  called 
to  see  the  doctor,  who  was  anxious  to  sell  a  horse.  The 
dealer  happened  to  come  from  Yorkshire,  and,  as  he  was 
talking  over  the  bargain  with  the  parson,  he  caught  sight 
of  the  figure  of  Aram  working  in  the  garden.  He  imme- 
diately recognised  him  and  told  the  doctor  that  he  knew 
his  friend.  The  horse-dealer,  his  business  completed,  re- 
turned to  Yorkshire,  and  was  able  to  tell  his  customers  at 
Knaresborough  the  whereabouts  of  Eugene  Aram.  For 
the  moment  the  information  was  interesting ;  in  a  month 
or  two  it  became  useful. 

Early  in  the  year  1758  a  labourer,  digging  stone  at 
Thistle  Hill,  near  Knaresborough,  came  across  a  human 
skeleton.  The  people  of  Knaresborough  with  one  voice 
declared  that  these  must  be  the  bones  of  Daniel  Clarke. 
Mrs.  Aram  had  already  dropped  some  hints  as  to  the  fate 
of  Clarke  ;  now,  at  the  coroner's  inquest  on  the  newly 
found  skeleton,  she  told  her  story  of  the  night  of  the 
murder.  Houseman  was  apprehended  on  her  evidence, 
and  confronted  with  the  bones.  The  coroner,  seeing  him 

155 


THE   TRUE   STORY 

pale  and  trembling  with  fear,  bade  him  take  up  a  bone. 
Houseman  obeyed,  but,  to  the  general  astonishment, 
declared  that  the  bone  was  no  more  Daniel  Clarke's  than 
it  was  his.  Asked  to  explain  himself,  he  said  that  Eugene 
Aram  had  murdered  Clarke,  whose  bones  were  not  those 
found  on  Thistle  Hill,  but  were  lying  buried  in  St. 
Robert's  Cave.  There  the  skeleton  of  Clarke  was  un- 
earthed, according  to  Houseman's  indication.  Furnished 
with  the  horse-dealer's  information,  now  valuable  indeed, 
Barker  and  Moore,  two  Knaresborough  constables,  set  out 
for  Lynn  disguised  as  Yorkshire  cattle-dealers. 

Arrived  at  Lynn,  the  constables  made  inquiries  at  the 
local  inn,  where  they  were  soon  able  to  satisfy  themselves 
that  the  man  they  wanted  and  the  usher  at  the  grammar 
school  were  one  and  the  same  person.  Aram  was  standing 
in  a  corner  of  the  playground  when  he  was  apprehended, 
handcuffed,  and,  amidst  the  tears  of  his  pupils,  driven  off 
in  a  chaise  to  Knaresborough  with  his  two  captors.  It 
will  be  seen  from  this  that  he  did  not  walk  between  the 
two  stern-faced  men,  whose  proceedings  are  so  graphically 
described  in  Hood's  poem. 

His  arrival  at  Knaresborough  had  been  eagerly  awaited. 
As  he  stepped  from  the  chaise  at  the  door  of  the  Bell  Inn, 
the  rustic  crowd  observed  with  admiration  his  genteel  suit 
of  clothes  and  the  elegant  frills  hanging  from  his  wrists — 
a  very  different  figure  to  the  impecunious  schoolmaster 
who  had  left  them  fourteen  years  before.  Since  then 
Eugene  Aram  had  been  courted  and  respected  by  men 
who  were  of  a  position  to  appreciate  the  learned  and 
ingenious  scholar,  who  had  known  nothing  of  the  obscure 
and  nefarious  past,  who  would  have  been  shocked  and 
startled  indeed  to  have  seen  the  elegant  frills  of  the 
meditative  usher  trailing  over  the  handcuffs. 

In  the  parlour  of  the  inn  Aram  found  the  vicar  and  a 
number  of  local  gentlemen  whom  the  singular  circum- 
stances of  the  crime  and  the  personality  of  the  criminal 

156 


OF  EUGENE   ARAM 

had  brought  together.  Aram  conversed  freely  and  calmly 
with  the  assembled  company,  and  assured  them  of  his 
ability  to  meet  the  charges  made  against  him.  In  the 
midst  of  his  conversation  his  wife,  who  had  been  told  of 
her  husband's  arrival,  entered  the  room  with  her  children. 
He  took  no  notice  of  them  till  he  had  finished  his  con- 
versation with  the  gentry ;  then,  turning  to  her,  said 
coldly,  "  Well,  how  do  you  do  ? "  He  then  asked  after 
one  of  his  sons,  an  idiot ;  his  wife  answered  that  the  boy 
was  worse ;  he  told  her  that  if  she  had  followed  his 
instructions,  he  would  have  been  better. 

A  year  passed  between  Aram's  return  to  Knaresborough 
and  his  trial  at  York  in  the  August  of  1759.  The  interval 
of  time  was  occupied,  presumably,  in  some  attempt  to 
procure  such  evidence  as  would  convict  both  Aram  and 
Houseman  without  having  to  accept  the  testimony  of 
either  man  against  the  other.  Not  that  Aram  would 
have  offered  himself  as  a  witness  against  his  accomplice : 
his  firmness  and  courage — if  such  a  word  may  be  used — 
are  as  remarkable  as  the  trembling  cowardice  of  House- 
man. Of  the  latter  he  spoke  with  bitter  contempt. 
"  Young  woman,"  he  said  to  a  girl  who  served  him  with 
his  meals  in  York  Castle,  "  if  you  ever  get  married,  don't 
take  a  man  that  has  got  a  hen's  heart,  but  choose  one  that 
has  a  cock's."  His  mind  was  so  composed  that  even  the 
parting  agony  of  his  dear  daughter  Sally  did  not  prevent 
him  from  giving  her  a  receipt  for  removing  freckles.  As 
she  stood  sobbing  at  the  gates  of  the  Castle  he  noticed  she 
had  become  tanned  and  freckled  with  the  sun.  Poor  Sally 
in  the  midst  of  her  tears  admitted  the  soft  impeachment, 
but  said  she  didn't  know  how  to  get  rid  of  them.  "  Oh, 
make  a  wash  with  lemon  juice,  that  will  cure  them," 
answered  her  father. 

The  trial  of  Eugene  Aram  took  place  at  York  before 
Mr.  Justice  Noel  on  August  13th,  1759.  To  the  surprise  of 
Aram,  Houseman,  who  had  been  previously  arraigned  and 

157 


s 


THE  TRUE   STORY 

acquitted  for  want  of  evidence,  appeared  in  the  box  as  a 
witness  for  the  Crown.  It  may  be  partly  due  to  his  sur- 
prise at  this  proceeding  that  in  his  now  famous  defence 
Aram  made  no  effort  to  reply  to  the  evidence  given  against 
him  ;  in  all  probability  the  evidence  was  sufficiently  clear 
to  make  an  effective  answer  impossible.  There  is  no  report 
of  the  trial ;  Aram's  speech  is  the  only  part  preserved  to 
us,  and  in  this  he  is  altogether  silent  as  to  any  of  the 
witnesses  called  by  the  prosecution.  Scatcherd  says  that, 
though  the  wisest  of  men,  Aram  was  too  much  of  a  child 
in  a  law  court  to  make  a  defence  that  would  have  satisfied 
a  judge  and  jury.  Certainly  Aram  laboured  under  the 
usual  disadvantages  of  prisoners  in  those  days ;  but  it  is 
difficult  to  believe,  from  his  previous  career,  or  the 
ingeniousness  of  the  defence  which  he  did  make,  that  he 
was  so  childlike  as  to  have  been  unable  to  offer  a  refutation 
of  the  case  against  him,  if  it  had  been  in  his  power  to  do  so. 
His  defence,  as  it  stands,  admirable  in  the  modesty  of  its 
expression  and  the  ingenuity  of  its  arguments,  is  absolutely 
unconvincing.1  It  consists  entirely  of  an  attempt  to  show 
that  the  bones  of  Clarke  might  be  the  bones  of  some  long- 
buried  hermit,  and  he  cites  a  number  of  instances  in  which 
such  bones  have  been  found  in  a  similar  state  of  preserva- 
tion, in  spite  of  a  much  longer  interment  than  fourteen 
years.  He  dwells,  too,  with  becoming  diffidence  on  his 
irreproachable  character  and  reputation,  and  the  impro- 
bability of  a  man  of  such  conduct  suddenly,  without  any 
previous  experience  in  crime,  committing  a  horrid  murder. 
In  this  argument  Eugene  Aram  touches  the  very  mystery 
of  his  own  career.  He  has  offered  a  solution  of  this  sudden 
impulse  to  crime  by  accusing  his  wife  of  infidelity  ;  we 
have  already  commented  on  the  dubious  character  of  that 
explanation.  At  the  last  let  Eugene  Aram  speak  for 

1  This  was  the  opinion  of  Paley,  author  of  the  Evidences,  who 
was  present  in  court  during  Aram's  trial,  and  listened  with  admira- 
tion to  his  speech. 

158 


OF   EUGENE   ARAM 

himself.  Convicted  and  condemned  to  death,  he  attempted 
suicide  in  York  Castle  the  night  before  his  execution. 
Before  opening  the  veins  of  his  arm  with  a  razor  he  had 
concealed  for  the  purpose,  he  wrote : 

"  What  am  I  better  than  my  fathers  ?  To  die  is  natural 
and  necessary.  Perfectly  sensible  of  this,  I  fear  no  more  to 
die  than  I  did  to  be  born.  But  the  manner  of  it  is  some- 
thing which  should  in  my  opinion  be  decent  and  manly. 
I  think  I  have  regarded  both  these  points.  Certainly 
nobody  has  a  better  right  to  dispose  of  a  man's  life  than 
himself ;  and  he,  not  others,  should  determine  how.  As  to 
any  indignities  offered  to  my  body,  or  silly  reflections  on 
my  faith  and  morals,  they  are  (as  they  always  were)  things 
indifferent  to  me.  I  think,  though  contrary  to  the  common 
way  of  thinking ;  I  wrong  no  man  by  this,  and  hope  it  is 
not  offensive  to  that  eternal  Being  that  formed  me  and 
the  world  ;  and  as  by  this  I  injure  no  man,  no  man  can  be 
reasonably  offended.  I  solicitously  recommend  myself  to 
that  eternal  and  almighty  Being,  the  God  of  nature,  if  I 
have  done  amiss.  But  perhaps  I  have  not,  and  I  hope  this 
thing  will  never  be  imputed  to  me.  Though  I  am  now 
stained  by  malevolence  and  suffer  by  prejudice,  I  hope  to 
rise  fair  and  unblemished.  My  life  was  not  polluted,  my 
morals  irreproachable,  and  my  opinions  orthodox.1  I  slept 
sound  till  three  o'clock,  awaked,  and  then  writ  these  lines  : 

Come,  pleasing  rest,  eternal  slumbers  fall, 
Seal  mine,  that  once  must  seal  the  eyes  of  all ; 
Calm  and  composed,  my  soul  her  journey  takes, 
No  guilt  that  troubles  and  no  heart  that  aches. 
Adieu  !  thou  sun,  all  bright  like  her  arise. 
Adieu  !  fair  friends,  and  all  that's  good  and  wise.  ' 

Are  these  lines  the  dignified  farewell   of  a   martyred 

1  I  should  think  it  was  very  doubtful  whether  a  prison  chaplain 
would  assent  to  Aram's  claim  to  orthodoxy.  There  is  a  suspicious 
flavour  of  eighteenth-century  deism  in  his  conception  of  God.  How- 
ever, the  God  of  the  Bible  and  the  God  of  the  philosopher  are  equally 
odious  on  the  lips  of  an  unrepentant  murderer. 

159 


THE  TRUE   STORY   OF   EUGENE   ARAM 

philosopher,  or  the  egotistical  exit  of  a  criminal  posing  as 
martyr  and  philosopher  ?  Would  not  a  word  or  two  of 
greeting  to  Mrs.  Aram,  of  apology  to  Clarke,  have  been 
more  seemly  on  such  an  occasion  than  six  lines  of  indifferent 
verse  in  praise  of  his  own  sublime  departure  from  this 
world  ?  Over  Aram's  farewell,  one  can  exclaim  with 
Joseph  Surface,  "  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  "'tis  this  very  conscious 
innocence  that  is  of  the  greatest  prejudice  to  you."  One 
would  be  so  grateful  for  just  some  little  acknowledgment 
of  human  weakness  from  this  consciously  irreproachable 
assassin. 

Was  Eugene  Aram  a  good  man  struggling  against 
adversity,  as  his  most  zealous  apologist  would  have  us 
believe  ?  We  are  inclined  to  answer  the  question  in  the 
negative.  All  we  can  say  with  absolute  certainty  is  that 
he  murdered  Daniel  Clarke  and  discovered  a  European 
affinity  in  Celtic  roots.  For  the  latter  achievement  he  is 
entitled  to  rank  with  scholars  as  well  as  murderers ;  for 
the  former  he  was  hanged  at  York,  half  fainting  from  his 
attempt  at  suicide  which  had  been  happily,  or  unhappily, 
frustrated,  and  his  body  hung  in  chains  near  Knares- 
borough.  One  of  his  daughters,  Betty,  described  as  a 
"  wild  girl,"  saw  the  corpse  swinging  in  its  chains  on 
Thistle  Hill  and  ran  gleefully  to  tell  her  mother  that  she 
had  seen  father  hanging  up  on  the  hill ;  the  sight  seemed 
to  give  her  satisfaction. 

Houseman  withdrew  with  his  raven  from  his  native 
village,  loathed  and  dejected,  his  windows  having  been 
smashed  by  old  pupils  of  Aram,  and  died  in  his  bed  at 
a  place  called  Marton. 

Mrs.  Aram  kept  a  pie  and  sausage  shop  in  Knares- 
borough,  and  picked  up  her  husband's  bones  as  they  fell 
from  the  gibbet. 


160 


The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Goodere 


161 


THE  Gooderes  were  a  Herefordshire  family.  The  first 
of  them  to  emerge  from  the  purely  local  importance  of 
respectable  country  squires  was  Edward  Goodere,  of 
Burhope,  who  represented  his  county  in  the  Parliament 
of  1709,  and  was  made  a  baronet  by  Queen  Anne.  Rather 
more  than  twenty  years  before  Sir  Edward  had  married  a 
Miss  Dinely,  the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  Sir  Edward 
Dinely,  Bart.,  of  Charlton,  in  Worcestershire.  This  young 
lady  was  worth  £3,000  a  year,  and  for  that  reason  appeared 
to  be  an  excellent  match  to  the  young  Goodere,  whose  own 
estate  brought  him  in  an  annual  income  of  barely  ^1,000. 
Fearing  lest  the  parents  of  the  young  lady  should  consider 
him  an  unsuitable  husband  for  so  comfortable  an  heiress, 
Edward  Goodere  at  first  addressed  his  suit  to  Miss  Dinely 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  father  and  mother,  and  it 
was  only  when  he  was  sure  of  her  affections  that  he  dared 
openly  to  claim  her  hand.  His  discretion  was  rewarded. 
He  secured  the  heiress  as  his  wife,  and  the  enjoyment  of 
her  fortune  during  her  lifetime ;  but  it  was  settled — and 

1  The  materials  for  this  tragic  chapter  in  the  history  of  a  family 
are  to  be  found  in  vol.  xvii.  of  Howell's  State  Trials,  and  in  a  few 
contemporary  pamphlets  dealing  with  the  case  which  are  referred 
tox  in  the  catalogue  of  the  British  Museum  Library  under  the 
heading  "Goodere."  One  of  these  pamphlets  is  the  work  of 
Samuel  Foote,  the  celebrated  comedian,  who  through  his  mother 
was  nephew  to  the  two  brothers  whose  story  is  here  told. 

1  Reprinted  from  The  Oornhill  Magazine. 

16S 


THE   FALL   OF  THE 

this  is  important  in  view  of  subsequent  events — that  on 
her  death  her  fortune  was  to  go  to  her  eldest  son.  This 
settlement  became  effective  by  the  birth  of  an  heir,  which 
was  followed  by  the  birth  of  two  other  sons,  John  and 
Samuel,  born  in  1687.  As  the  boys  grew  to  manhood  the 
eldest  was  kept  at  home  and  educated  in  a  way  befitting 
his  prospects,  while  John  and  Samuel  were  sent  to  sea. 
The  first  catastrophe  occurring  in  the  family,  and  the 
prelude  to  the  bloody  drama  which  destroyed  the  honour 
and  fortunes  of  the  house,  was  the  untimely  death  of  the 
eldest  son.  An  amiable  and  accomplished  youth  of  happy 
promise,  he  was  killed  in  a  duel  in  Ireland,  whereupon 
John,  the  second  son,  was  recalled  from  his  ship,  the 
Diamond  (1708),  to  take  over  the  responsibilities  of 
heirship. 

In  the  meantime  the  youngest,  Samuel,  had  remained  at 
sea,  and  served  as  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy  throughout  the 
war  of  the  Spanish  Succession.  As  an  officer  he  showed 
himself  valorous  and  insubordinate ;  though  report  spoke 
of  him  as  acting  with  great  bravery  at  Ferrol  and  St. 
Sebastian,  he  was  convicted  by  a  court-martial,  on 
December  24th,  1719,  of  having  been  "  very  much 
wanting  in  the  performance  of  his  duty"  in  the  latter 
engagement,  and  dismissed  his  ship.  After  this  he 
returned  home  ;  and  the  next  twenty  years  witnessed 
the  growth  and  development  of  the  feud  between  the 
two  brothers  which  united  them  finally  in  violent  death, 
and  left  to  a  poor  eccentric  the  pitiful  task  of  ringing 
down  the  curtain  on  the  tragedy  of  the  Gooderes  with 
the  sorrowful  farce  of  the  half-witted  Knight  of  Windsor. 

When  Samuel,  in  consequence  of  the  court-martial  on 
his  conduct  at  St.  Sebastian,  retired  temporarily  from  the 
navy  he  found  elements  of  discord  already  present  in  his 
family.  John,  since  his  return  home  on  his  brother's 
death,  had  not  succeeded  in  hitting  it  off  with  his  father. 
His  short  experience  as  a  sailor  had  roughened  a  character 

164 


HOUSE   OF  GOODERE 

already  marked  by  an  unpleasing  eccentricity,  the  first  sign 
of  that  degeneracy  in  the  family  wits  which  reached  a  climax 
in  the  mad  offspring  of  his  brother.  Sir  Edward  declared 
John  fitter  to  be  a  boatswain  than  a  baronet;  consequently 
it  was  not  difficult  for  Samuel,  when  he  returned  from  sea, 
to  win  not  only  his  father's  confidence  and  support,  but 
the  general  good  opinion  of  the  neighbouring  gentry,  who 
were  quick  to  compare  his  attractive  manners  with  the 
stubborn  uncouthness  of  his  elder  brother.  John  rejected 
all  his  father's  attempts  to  make  him  a  gentleman;  Samuel 
charmed  all  by  his  candour  and  good-nature,  and  acquired 
a  delightful  reputation  for  being  "as  gallant  a  young 
fellow  as  any  in  the  navy."  Certainly  there  were  those 
who  hinted  that  Samuel,  with  all  his  good-humour,  was  a 
man  of  violent  and  unscrupulous  temper,  and  stories  were 
told  of  how,  as  a  boy,  he  had  robbed  his  father's  house  and 
clapped  a  pistol  to  his  mother's  breast,  while  on  another 
occasion  he  had  threatened  to  put  a  brace  of  bullets 
through  his  father's  heart  if  he  did  not  supply  him 
immediately  with  money  to  gratify  his  extravagant  habits. 
The  friends  of  John  declared  the  elder  to  be  a  sane, 
upright,  conscientious  man,  and  Samuel  a  mischievous  and 
daring  rascal,  whilst  the  friends  of  Samuel  protested  that 
the  younger  was  the  upright,  dutiful,  and  charming  son, 
John  a  cruel,  grasping,  irresponsible  boor.  The  sequel 
would  seem  to  show  that  John  was  the  madder  and  more 
honest  of  the  two,  Samuel  the  saner  and  unquestionably 
the  more  dangerous;  both  in  a  like  degree  passionate, 
vindictive,  avaricious,  and  rather  more  indifferent  towards 
each  other  than  brothers  usually  are. 

The  hostility  of  these  two  brothers  was  no  private  thing, 
one  of  those  painfully  stifled  disagreements  that  only  break 
out  in  the  domestic  circle.  It  sought  public  expression, 
and  found  it  in  a  contest  between  them  for  a  neighbouring 
mayoralty.  The  brothers  were  rival  candidates,  and  each 
chose  to  consider  himself  elected.  Accordingly,  on  the 

165 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

Sunday  after  the  election,  John  and  Samuel,  in  civic  robes, 
and  with  accompanying  trains,  raced  to  church  in  their 
official  capacities.  John  arrived  first,  and  took  his  place 
in  the  mayor's  seat  of  honour.  Samuel  hurried  after  him 
and,  having  more  resolute  attendants,  turned  out  his  elder 
brother.  In  a  Parliamentary  election  Samuel,  by  siding 
against  the  family  candidate,  procured  his  own  reinstate- 
ment in  the  navy,  and  was  posted  to  the  ship  Antelope  for 
a  fortnight  with  a  view  to  obtaining  promotion  in  rank. 
Such  were  the  preliminaries  in  a  struggle  which  family 
affairs  soon  hastened  to  a  desperate  conclusion. 

The  brothers  had  married — John  a  Miss  Lawford,  a 
Bristol  heiress,  who  brought  him  £10,000  and  bore  him 
a  son ;  Samuel  a  Miss  Watts,  by  whom  he  had  two  sons 
and  three  daughters.  Both  these  marriages  were  more  or 
less  unfortunate  in  their  results.  John  disagreed  with  his 
wife  for  the  same  reason  that  he  had  disagreed  with  his 
father — his  inability  to  behave  like  a  gentleman  ;  Samuel's 
two  sons  were  weak-minded  in  varying  degree.  Sir  Edward 
would  seem  to  have  attempted  to  reconcile  some  measure 
of  impartiality  in  his  sons'  disputes  with  a  decided  leaning 
towards  Samuel ;  but,  on  the  death  of  Lady  Goodere,  the 
family  greed  of  gold  estranged  him  completely  from  the 
cause  of  John.  According  to  his  marriage  settlement, 
Lady  Goodere's  separate  property  went  on  her  death  to 
her  eldest  surviving  son.  Sir  Edward  now  found  his  income 
diminished  by  some  £3,000.  Though  John  allowed  his 
father  to  retain  the  estate  of  Henley,  in  Worcestershire, 
to  the  value  of  £500  a  year,  even  this  concession  failed 
to  reconcile  Sir  Edward  to  the  inevitable ;  Samuel  was 
always  at  his  side  to  remind  him  of  his  diminished  income 
and  his  enforced  dependence  on  the  parsimonious  John. 

Jacob-like,  the  younger  brother  now  set  himself  to 
supplant  the  elder  in  the  inheritance  of  Burhope,  the 
family  property  in  Herefordshire,  which  it  lay  with  Sir 
Edward  to  dispose  of  at  his  death.  When  that  event 

166 


HOUSE  OF  GOODERE 

occurred,  in  1739,  the  will  of  the  late  baronet  showed  that 
he  had  made  an  attempt  to  heal  the  now  flagrant  enmity 
of  his  sons  by  a  not  unfair  compromise.  To  John,  who 
was  already  well  provided  for,  he  left  the  enjoyment  of 
the  Burhope  estate  during  his  lifetime,  with  remainder 
to  Samuel  and  his  heirs.  But,  however  well  meant,  this 
attempt  to  heal  the  family  jars  was  a  complete  failure. 
Each  of  the  brothers  desired  all  for  himself  and  nothing 
for  the  other.  John  accused  his  father  of  ingratitude  in 
so  poorly  repaying  his  kindness  in  allowing  him  the  use  of 
the  Henley  property  during  his  lifetime ;  Samuel  was 
merely  disappointed  and  enraged  that  Sir  Edward's 
obvious  preference  for  him  in  his  latter  days  had  received 
such  inadequate  expression  in  his  will.  John  showed  his 
sense  of  injury  by  giving  his  father  a  cheap  and  unworthy 
funeral,  much  to  Samuel's  horror;  Samuel  displayed  his 
loss  of  self-control  by  hurrying  down  to  Burhope  with  six 
ruffians,  and  flourishing  in  his  brother's  face  a  lease  which 
he  said  Sir  Edward  had  granted  him  before  his  death ;  he 
was  only  prevented  from  further  acts  of  violence  by  Sir  John 
running  upstairs  and  taking  refuge  behind  a  blunderbuss. 

In  a  family  composed  of  such  warring  and  discordant 
elements,  in  which  envy,  greed,  and  the  beginnings  of 
mental  alienation  are  teased  into  mischievous  activity 
by  the  manifold  vexations  of  succession  and  inheritance, 
one  cause  of  quarrel  follows  with  startling  rapidity  on  the 
heels  of  another.  Sir  John's  eccentricity  of  character  had 
not  been  without  its  effect  on  his  married  life ;  he  treated 
his  son  with  unaccountable  neglect,  and  did  everything  to 
provoke  his  wife  to  seek  consolation  for  her  trying  situation 
in  the  arms  of  another.  Whether  she  had  actually  done 
so  is  uncertain  ;  in  any  case  Sir  John  accused  her  of  mis- 
conduct with  a  neighbouring  baronet,  Sir  Robert  Jason, 
and  by  the  suborned  evidence  of  servants  and  tenants,  if 
the  partisans  of  the  lady  are  to  be  believed,  obtained 
£500  damages  against  the  defendant.  This  victory 

167 


Sir  John  followed  up  by  indicting  Lady  Goodere  in  the 
King's  Bench  for  conspiring  against  his  life,  and  she  was 
sentenced  to  a  year's  imprisonment.  In  the  light  of  subse- 
quent events  one  is  inclined  to  ask  whether  this  last  charge 
of  conspiracy  to  murder  was  merely  the  fabrication  of  a 
vindictive  eccentric  supported  by  the  evidence  of  hirelings, 
or  should  be  regarded  as  the  actual  outcome  of  the  evil 
influence  of  Samuel,  who  had  espoused  Lady  Goodere's 
cause,  and  was  now  perhaps  endeavouring  to  execute  with 
her  assistance  the  murderous  design  which  he  afterwards 
carried  out  on  his  own  account.  Samuel  had  undoubtedly 
intervened  in  his  brother's  marital  affairs  and,  from  the 
nature  of  things,  taken  the  wife's  part.  But  it  is  distinctly 
in  favour  of  the  lady's  innocence  that,  when  Sir  John 
followed  up  his  two  previous  actions  by  applying  to  the 
House  of  Lords  for  a  divorce,  the  Lords,  notwithstanding 
the  judgment  in  the  Common  Pleas  and  the  sentence  of 
the  King's  Bench,  refused  to  grant  it.  Sir  John  had  more- 
over shown  a  distinctly  vindictive  spirit  by  suing  for  his 
divorce  while  his  wife  was  still  undergoing  her  sentence  of 
imprisonment,  and  it  was  only  through  the  efforts  of  her 
friends,  chief  among  them  Samuel,  that  she  was  enabled 
successfully  to  resist  his  suit.  These  facts  would  suggest 
that  Lady  Goodere  was  really  suffering  some  sort  of  per- 
secution at  the  hands  of  her  peculiar  husband,  and  that, 
whatever  Captain  Samuel's  motives,  he  was  in  this  instance 
on  the  side  of  justice. 

But  a  circumstance  befell  at  this  time  that  wrought  so 
dismal  a  consequence  in  the  soul  of  Captain  Samuel  Goodere 
that  all  other  causes  of  quarrel,  secret  grudges,  and  open 
hatreds  paled  their  ineffectual  fire  before  the  flame  of  this 
new  mortification.  As  the  death  of  a  son  and  heir  had 
first  brought  the  two  brothers  face  to  face,  and  made  them 
hate  each  other  with  a  deadly  hate,  so  the  death  of  another 
son  and  heir  removed  the  last  human  being  that  could 
stand  between  the  house  of  Goodere  and  The  Newgate 

168 


Calendar.  Sir  John's  only  son,  neglected  all  his  life  by 
his  singular  father,  who  had  apprenticed  him  to  a  saddler, 
and  spoilt  by  his  easy  mother,  had  completely  wrecked 
his  youth  in  dissipation,  with  the  result  that  he  died  in 
miserable  circumstances  in  the  year  1740.  His  father 
showed  his  sense  of  his  affliction  by  himself  driving  to  the 
grave  the  hearse  that  contained  the  last  remains  of  his 
posterity.  Drive  on,  anomalous  baronet !  tumble  young 
hopeful  into  his  grave !  but  have  a  care  lest  your  own 
hearse  journey  be  not  so  very  far  away  in  point  of  time, 
and  Brother  Samuel's  too  !  Such  a  nodding  of  plumes  as 
there  will  be  on  the  road  from  Bristol  to  Hereford  before 
many  months  are  past.  Bristol  is  now  a  city  of  some 
interest  to  the  Goodere  family,  for  about  November,  1 740, 
Captain  Samuel  Goodere,  R.N.,  is  gazetted  to  his  Majesty's 
ship  Ruby,  lying  in  the  King's  road  of  that  city. 

Only  son  and  heir  of  Sir  John  Dinely  Goodere,  Bart., 
dead,  the  Dinely  property  in  Worcestershire,  left  to  Sir 
John  by  his  mother,  should  pass,  on  his  death,  to  Captain 
Samuel  as  next  remainderman  under  the  settlement,  saving 
always  the  right  of  the  said  Sir  John  to  cut  off  the  entail. 
This  right  Sir  John,  towards  the  end  of  the  year  1740, 
suddenly  announced  his  intention  of  exercising  in  favour 
of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Foote,  of  Bristol,  mother  of  Samuel 
Foote,  comedian  that  is  to  be.  In  the  heart  of  a  turbulent 
sea  captain,  trained  in  what  was  then  one  of  the  finest 
schools  for  breeding  ruffians  from  gentlemen  that  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  this  latest  manoeuvre  of  a  hated  brother 
stirred  a  vehement  desire  for  a  final  settlement  of  all 
points  at  issue  by  piratical  expedients.  The  spirit  of 
Cain  entered  into  the  soul  of  Captain  Samuel :  his  hand 
is  on  his  cutlass  ;  he  clears  his  decks  for  action. 

Now  my  anger's  up, 

Ten  thousand  virgins  kneeling  at  my  feet, 
And  with  one  general  cry  howling  for  mercy, 
Shall  not  redeem  thee. 

169 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

Captain  Samuel  withdraws  himself  to  his  good  ship  Ruby 
at  Bristol.  Sir  John,  full  of  infirmities,  has  gone  to  Bath 
to  take  the  waters.  These  are  the  respective  situations 
of  these  two  elderly  gentlemen  in  the  new  year  of  1741. 
The  captain  is  now  fifty-three  years  old,  the  baronet 
nearing  sixty,  gentlemen  of  ripe  age  to  be  about  repeating 
the  story  of  the  first  murder. 

Mr.  Jarrit  Smith  was  a  Bristol  solicitor,  and  in  that 
capacity  had  acted  at  different  times  for  Sir  John  Goodere. 
The  baronet  trusted  Mr.  Smith  and  relied  on  his  judgment 
n  his  business  affairs.  It  was,  therefore,  quite  natural 
that  Captain  Goodere  should  confide  to  Mr.  Smith  a 
desire  that  he  alleged  had  sprung  up  in  his  heart  to  be 
reconciled  with  his  elder  brother.  This  friendly  spirit 
had  come  over  the  captain  towards  the  end  of  1740,  and 
early  in  the  following  year  Mr.  Smith  communicated  it  to 
his  client.  After  some  demur  Sir  John  allowed  Mr.  Smith 
to  persuade  him  to  a  meeting  with  his  brother  the  next 
time  he  should  come  to  Bristol.  He  was  then  staying  at 
Bath,  as  "  his  heart  was  bad,"  and  he  was  very  deaf ;  he 
had  been  assured  that  the  Bath  waters  would  mend  his 
troubles.  Tuesday,  January  13th,  was  the  day  finally 
fixed  on  for  the  meeting  ;  Sir  John  was  to  come  to  Mr. 
Smith's  house  on  College  Green  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  Mr.  Smith  warned  the  penitent  captain  to 
be  there  in  good  time,  as  his  brother  was  a  man  of  exact 
punctuality. 

Mr.  Smith's  warning  was  evidently  not  lost  on  Captain 
Goodere,  who  took  rather  extraordinary  steps  in  order  to 
be  up  to  time.  Opposite  Mr.  Smith's  house  on  College 
Green  stood  the  White  Hart  alehouse,  kept  by  one  Hobbs. 
On  the  first  floor  of  the  alehouse  was  a  little  closet  where 
gentlemen  were  accustomed  to  sit  and  look  out  of  the 
window  while  drinking.  This  window  commanded  a  view 
of  Mr.  Smith's  house.  What  more  natural  than  that 
Captain  Goodere,  anxious  to  fall  in  with  Sir  John's  punctual 

170 


HOUSE   OF  GOODERE 

habits,  should  hire  this  room  for  Tuesday  morning,  so  that 
he  could  come  on  shore,  take  an  early  breakfast,  and 
await  from  the  window  his  brother's  coming?  But  it 
was,  perhaps,  a  little  excessive  on  the  captain's  part  to 
expect  that  this  scrupulous  interest  in  his  brother's 
approach  should  be  shared  by  Matthew  Mahony,  an  Irish 
sailor  on  his  own  ship,  and  half  a  dozen  ill-behaved 
ruffians  from  a  privateersman  then  lying  off  Bristol.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  captain  did  elect  to  entertain  such 
dubious  persons  on  Tuesday  morning,  January  13th,  at 
the  White  Hart  alehouse,  while  he  himself  breakfasted 
off  coffee  and  toast  in  the  closet  over  the  porch,  looking 
out  for  his  brother.  Punctual  to  the  hour,  Sir  John  rode 
up  to  Mr.  Smith's,  followed  by  a  mounted  servant,  and 
went  into  the  solicitor's  office.  He  only  stayed  a  few 
moments  and  then  rode  off,  saying  he  would  be  in  Bristol 
again  the  following  Sunday,  and  that  he  had  no  time  to 
see  his  brother  then.  But  his  brother  had  seen  him  and 
thought  him  "  looking  better  than  he  used  to  do,"  so  he 
told  Mr.  Smith.  He  had  also  pointed  out  Sir  John  to 
Mahony  and  his  companions,  and  Mahony  was  so  much 
interested  in  the  personality  of  the  worthy  baronet  that 
he  had  followed  him  a  mile  or  two  at  some  speed,  return- 
ing sweating  to  the  alehouse  in  about  an  hour  and  a  half. 
"  Look  well  at  him,  but  don't  touch  him,"  the  captain  had 
said  to  Mahony  when  he  started;  for  the  captain  had 
observed  that  the  baronet  was  riding  with  pistols  in  front 
of  him  and  a  mounted  servant  at  his  back.  On  his  return 
to  the  White  Hart  Mahony  treated  himself  to  some  ale  at 
the  captain's  expense,  and  ordered  the  captain's  room  to 
be  ready,  dusted,  and  a  fire  lighted  over  against  the  next 
Saturday. 

The  captain  in  the  meantime  was  determined  not  to  be 
frustrated  in  his  brotherly  approaches.  He  continued  full 
of  compliment  to  good  Mr.  Smith,  and  was  delighted  when 
that  gentleman  informed  him  that  Sir  John  was  to  be  with 

171 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

him  again  the  next  Sunday,  the  18th,  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  Mr.  Smith  showed  him  a  letter  from  his 
brother  to  that  effect,  and  the  captain  remarked  on  the 
improvement  in  the  baronet's  handwriting ;  in  Mr.  Smith's 
opinion  all  things  promised  well  for  an  amicable  settlement. 

About  three  o'clock  on  the  Sunday  Mahony,  in  a  short 
jacket,  trousers,  and  a  leather  cap,  came  into  the  White 
Hart  and  sat  down  to  drink  ale  with  a  scabby-faced  man 
from  the  Vernon  privateer ;  they  were  soon  joined  by  two 
other  men,  more  or  less  ill-favoured,  likewise  from  the 
Vernon  privateer.  These  shady  persons  had  just  seen  an 
old  gentleman  in  black,  with  a  scarlet  cloak  and  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  alight  from  horseback  and  go  into  Mr. 
Jarrit  Smith's  house,  opposite.  He  was  wearing  a  black 
velvet  cap  over  his  ears,  to  keep  them  warm,  as  he  suffered 
from  deafness.  They  had  recognised  him  as  Sir  John 
Goodere,  Bart.,  and  this  time  they  had  observed  that  he 
was  without  pistols  and  mounted  servant.  He  had  been 
followed  into  Mr.  Smith's  house  by  Captain  Goodere, 
wearing  a  dark  shag  coat  with  yellow  buttons  and  a  gold- 
trimmed  waistcoat,  and  carrying  sword  and  cane.  Mahony 
and  friends  were  now  passing  the  time  noisily  over  their  ale 
until  these  two  brothers  should  come  out  of  Mr.  Jarrit 
Smith's  house.  From  College  Green  there  is  a  way  leading 
down  to  the  river,  which  runs  by  St.  Augustine's  Bank  and 
the  lime-kilns  in  the  brickyard.  Here  Captain  Goodere 
has  ordered  the  barge  of  the  Ruby  man-of-war  to  be  moored 
by  three  o'clock,  and  he  is  to  be  waited  for,  as  he  is 
bringing  some  one  on  board  with  him  that  evening. 

Until  almost  the  last  moment  Mr.  Smith  had  every 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  the  interview  he  had  arranged 
between  the  brothers.  True,  nothing  very  definite  had 
taken  place  in  the  way  of  a  compromise;  but  the  good 
feeling,  nay,  the  affection  of  Captain  Samuel  had  been  so 
evident,  Sir  John  so  cordial  and  obliging,  that  the  attorney 
may  well  have  hoped  for  a  speedy  and  complete  adjustment 

172 


HOUSE   OF   GOODERE 

of  their  differences.  No  sooner  had  the  Captain  entered 
the  room  in  which  Sir  John  and  Mr.  Smith  were  talking 
together  than  he  went  straight  up  to  his  brother  and, 
seemingly  with  all  the  affection  in  the  world,  kissed  him 
heartily.  Mr.  Smith  made  them  sit  down  by  the  fire,  one  on 
each  side  of  him,  and  they  drank  to  each  other,  Sir  John  in 
water,  being  forbidden  anything  else,  Samuel  in  a  bumper  of 
wine.  For  some  three-quarters  of  an  hour  the  two  brothers 
sat  opposite  to  each  other,  chatting  in  a  friendly  way. 
The  captain  spoke  of  the  family  estate  in  Herefordshire, 
and  how  good  the  land  was.  At  length  Sir  John  rose  up 
and  said,  "  Brother,  I  wish  you  well,"  and,  after  arranging 
to  be  with  Mr.  Smith  again  at  half-past  eight  the  following 
morning,  went  out.  Mr.  Smith  was  brimming  over  with 
joy  at  the  happy  result  of  the  interview,  and  with  pardon- 
able self-importance  turned  to  the  captain.  "  I  think," 
he  said,  "  I  have  done  great  things  for  you."  But,  to  his 
intense  surprise,  the  captain  abruptly  replied,  "  By  God, 
it  will  not  do  ! "  and  ran  very  nimbly  but  of  the  house  after 
his  brother.  Mr.  Smith  followed  him  to  the  door,  and  as 
the  two  brothers  turned  by  the  wall  of  St.  Augustine's 
Church  he  saw  some  sailors  come  out  of  the  White  Hart 
alehouse,  one  with  a  bottle  in  his  hand.  The  captain 
exchanged  a  hurried  word  with  them,  and  they  all  dis- 
appeared out  of  sight.  Mr.  Smith  would  have  followed 
them,  but  he  had  promised  to  fetch  his  wife  from  a 
neighbour's  house.  "  Some  people  think,"  he  said  on 
a  subsequent  occasion,  "it  was  well  I  did  not" — a  very 
justifiable  surmise. 

This  Sunday,  January  18th,  between  four  and  five  o'clock, 
loiterers-  about  Mr.  Thompson's  dock  by  the  lime-kilns, 
where  Captain  Goodere's  barge  was  moored,  were  treated 
to  an  unusual  spectacle.  They  saw  a  man  with  his  clothes 
ruffled  and  shoved  up  to  his  armpits  being  pushed  along 
by  some  five  or  six  sailors,  who  threatened  in  loud  tones 
death  and  damnation  to  any  who  interfered  with  their 

173 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

proceedings.  The  huddled  figure  in  their  midst,  they  said, 
was  a  midshipman  who  had  committed  a  murder,  and  was 
being  taken  to  be  tried  on  board  his  ship.  But  the 
"  midshipman's "  clothes  got  settled  down  after  a  while, 
and  a  carpenter's  wife  thought  she  recognised  the  face  of 
Sir  John  Goodere,  for  whom  her  husband  had  once  mended 
a  chair.  She  was  right ;  it  was  indeed  Sir  John,  and  as 
they  drove  him  on,  he  struggled  and  called  out  his  name, 
and  said  they  were  going  to  murder  him.  But  no  one 
heeded  his  cries.  The  proceeding  acquired  respectability 
from  a  gentleman  in  a  shag  coat  and  gold-trimmed  waist- 
coat, who,  with  cane  poised  in  one  hand  and  sword  in  the 
other,  marched  by  the  side  of  the  ruffians  and  ordered  their 
speed.  Arrived  at  the  water's  edge,  a  plank  was  put  out 
to  the  barge,  and  the  murderous  "  midshipman  "  pushed 
into  the  stern-sheet.  But  before  the  boat  was  well  off 
from  the  water-side  the  "  midshipman  "  cried  with  a  loud 
voice  to  those  standing  near,  "  For  God's  sake,  gentlemen, 
if  any  of  you  know  Mr.  Jarrit  Smith  in  the  College  Green 

tell  him  my  name  is  Sir  John  Dinely  " u  Goodere,"  he 

would  have  added,  no  doubt,  had  not  the  authoritative 
gentleman  in  the  shag  coat  stuffed  the  flap  of  his  coat  into 
his  mouth,  exclaiming  loud  enough  for  those  on  land  to 
hear,  "  Haven't  you  given  the  rogues  of  lawyers  money 
enough  already  ?  Do  you  want  to  give  them  more  ?  I'll 
take  care  they  shall  never  have  any  more  of  you  ;  now 
I'll  take  care  of  you." 

The  captain's  method  of  taking  care  of  his  brother  was 
certainly  an  original  one.  The  fashion  in  which  Sir  John 
had  been  conveyed  to  the  barge  was,  perhaps  unavoidably, 
coercive.  And  the  baronet  was  hardly  reassured  when  the 
captain,  it  being  a  bitterly  cold  night,  pulled  off  his 
brother's  red  cloak  and  put  it  over  his  own  shoulders.  Sir 
John  asked  what  "  the  captain  was  going  to  do  with  him." 
"  I  am  going  to  carry  you  on  board,  to  save  you  from  ruin 
and  from  lying  rotting  in  a  jail,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  know 

174 


HOUSE   OF   GOODERE 

better  things,"  answered  the  elder  ;  "  I  believe  you  are 
going  to  murder  me.  You  may  as  well  throw  me  over- 
board and  murder  me  here  as  carry  me  on  board  ship 
and  murder  me.11  "  No,"  replied  the  younger,  "  I  am  not 
going  to  do  any  such  thing,  but  I  would  have  you  make 
your  peace  with  God."  They  said  no  more,  for  Sir  John, 
deprived  of  his  cloak,  was  soon  numbed  by  the  cold,  and  sat 
still,  groaning  in  bodily  distress. 

It  was  between  seven  and  eight  at  night  when  Captain 
Goodere,  "  in  a  pleasant  humour,"  came  on  board  the 
Ruby.  He  greeted  his  officers  in  happy  fashion.  "  How 
do  you  all  do,  gentlemen  ?  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  from 
going  the  right  way  to-night,  for  I  have  brought  an  old 
mad  fellow  on  board,  and  I  must  take  care  of  him  "  ;  and 
the  officers  saw  the  object  of  his  care  come  groaning  up  the 
side  of  the  ship,  a  chilled  old  gentleman  in  a  black  cap, 
who  "  looked  much  surprised,  as  a  person  used  ill."  As 
soon  as  he  had  been  got  roughly  on  board  the  "  old  mad 
fellow  "  was  hauled  down  to  the  purser's  cabin,  which  had 
been  already  cleaned  out  by  the  captain's  orders  for  the 
reception  of  a  visitor.  The  visitor  complained  of  a  pain  in 
his  thigh,  occasioned  by  his  rude  treatment,  and  the  captain 
offered  him  a  dram,  which  he  refused,  nor  would  he  allow 
his  wet  clothes  to  be  shifted.  Mahony,  'the  Irishman, 
made  to  take  them  off',  but  he  stopped  him  :  "Don't  strip 
me,  fellow,  until  I  am  dead."  He  was  searched,  and  a 
knife  taken  from  him.  He  asked  them  to  take  care  of  it, 
for  it  had  been  his  son's  knife,  and  several  times  during 
that  night  he  was  heard  to  ask  for  this  knife.  Before 
leaving  his  charge  the  captain  sent  for  the  ship's  carpenter 
to  put  two  bolts  on  the  cabin  door,  and  a  sentinel,  one 
Buchanan,  was  placed  outside  with  a  naked  cutless  in  his 
hand. 

The  "  madman  "  gave  Sentry  Buchanan  little  trouble  in 
his  watch.  He  groaned  a  good  deal,  and  about  eleven 
required  some  assistance.  Mahony,  the  Irishman,  went  in 

175 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

to  see  after  him.  The  old  gentleman  was  still  uneasy  as 
to  his  fate.  He  asked  Mahony  if  his  brother  had  said  he 
was  mad.  "  Formerly,"  he  said,  "  I  used  to  be  so,  but  now 
I  have  not  tasted  wine  these  two  years."  He  could  not 
believe,  he  added,  that  the  men  who  had  attacked  him  that 
day  were  sailors,  "  for,  if  so,  they  are  sadly  degenerated 
from  what  sailors  were  formerly  ;  for  I  myself  have  been 
at  sea,  and  might  have  been  a  commander.'1''  Then  for 
a  space  they  talked  together  of  the  East  Indies,  until 
Mahony  left  him.  And  after  that  one  that  lay  in  an 
adjoining  cabin,  Jones,  the  ship's  cooper,  heard  the  gentle- 
man pray  to  God  to  be  his  Comforter  in  his  affliction  ;  he 
said  to  himself  that  he  knew  he  was  to  be  murdered,  and 
prayed  that  it  might  come  to  light  by  one  means  or 
another.  But  the  cooper  did  not  heed  his  words,  thinking 
him  to  be  a  madman. 

The  poor  "  madman  "  was  right  none  the  less.  Though 
he  knew  it  not,  he  had  just  talked  amicably  with  his 
executioner.  Mahony  was  now  in  the  captain"^  cabin, 
and  the  captain  busy  preparing  for  his  brother  a  truly 
grievous  instance  of  the  degeneracy  of  modern  seamen. 
Shakespeare  has  immortalised  in  more  than  one  of  his 
plays  the  kind  of  interview  that  passed  between  Captain 
Goodere  and  the  Irishman.  The  former  did  not  waste 
words;  Mahony,  he  said,  must  murder  his  brother,  and 
that  before  four  the  next  morning.  Mahony  objected;  the 
captain  insisted.  Mahony  said  he  could  not  do  it  alone. 
Then  he  must  do  it  with  some  one  else.  With  whom  ? 
The  captain  suggested  one  Elisha  Cole,  but  Elisha  had 
been  drunk  all  day,  and  was  therefore  not  to  be  relied  on. 
Then  the  captain  sent  for  Charles  White,  a  very  stout, 
lusty  fellow,  and  produced  a  bottle  of  rum.  He  told 
White  a  madman  had  to  be  murdered.  With  the  help 
of  sundry  drams  and  promises  of  reward  Mahony  and 
White  were  brought  at  last  to  the  sticking  point.  But 
how  was  it  to  be  done  ?  The  captain  produced  a  piece  of 

176 


HOUSE   OF  GOODERE 

half-inch  rope  about  nine  feet  long,  in  which  White  made 
a  noose.  This  round  the  neck  and  a  handkerchief  over 
the  mouth  ought,  in  the  trusty  hands  of  Mahony  and 
White,  to  settle  the  madman  for  good  and  all ;  the 
captain  promised  to  keep  guard  outside,  to  prevent 
interruption. 

About  midnight  Buchanan,  the  sentry,  was  sent  for  to 
the  captain's  cabin.  There  he  found  the  captain  and 
Mahony  drinking  rum.  The  captain  asked  him  how  his 
brother  was.  Buchanan  replied  that  he  groaned  a  little. 
"  Ah  ! "  said  the  captain,  "  I  am  coming  down  by  and  by 
to  shift  him  with  dry  stockings  "  ;  and  some  time  after,  in 
pursuance  of  his  kind  intention,  the  captain  did  accord- 
ingly come  down  to  the  cabin  and,  taking  his  cutlass  from 
him,  relieved  Buchanan  of  any  further  sentry  duty.  All 
was  now  in  order  for  the  shifting  of  Sir  John's  stockings. 

Jones,  the  ship's  cooper,  had  fallen  asleep  after  hearing 
the  madman's  prayers.  It  was  the  slop  room  in  which  he 
and  his  wife  were  sleeping ;  only  a  thin  deal  partition  with 
a  crack  in  it  separated  this  apartment  from  the  purser's 
cabin,  so  that  what  occurred  in  one  room  would  be  quite 
audible  and  partially  visible  to  any  person  lying  in  the 
other.  About  two  o'clock  Mrs.  Jones  was  awakened  by 
hearing  voices  in  the  purser's  cabin.  Mahony  was  talking 
to  the  madman.  The  latter  could  not  sleep.  Mahony 
offered  to  take  a  letter  for  him  to^Bristol.  Then  she  heard 
some  one  say  to  him,  "  You  must  lie  still  and  not  speak  a 
word  for  your  life,"  and  then  a  sound  as  of  a  struggle.  She 
waked  her  husband.  "  Don't  you  hear  the  noise,"  she 
whispered,  "  that  is  made  by  the  gentleman  ?  I  believe 
they  are  killing  him."  Jones  listened.  What  happened 
afterwards  is  best  told  in  his  own  words.  "  I  then  heard 
him  [the  gentleman]  kick  and  cry  out,  '  Here  are  twenty 
guineas  :  take  it ;  don't  murder  me.  Must  I  die  ?  Must 
I  die  ?  Oh,  my  life ! '  and  give  several  kecks  with  his 
throat,  and  then  he  was  still.  I  got  up  in  my  bed  ;  I  saw 

177  N 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

a  light  glimmering  in  at  the  crack,  and  saw  Mahony  with 
a  candle  in  his  hand.  The  gentleman  was  lying  on  one 
side.  Charles  White  was  there,  and  he  put  out  his  hand 
to  pull  the  gentleman  upright.  I  heard  Mahony  cry  out, 
'  Damn  ye,  let  us  get  his  watch  out.1  White  laid  hold  of 
him,  and  went  to  tumbling  him  up  to  get  out  his  money, 
and  unbuttoned  his  breeches  to  get  out  his  watch.11  At 
last  White  got  it  out  and  gave  it  to  his  companion.  The 
gold  and  silver  he  took  out  in  like  fashion  from  the  dead 
man's  pockets,  Jones  still  peering  through  the  partition. 
"  He  [the  gentleman  again]  lay  in  a  very  uneasy  manner 
with  one  leg  up ;  and  when  they  moved  him  he  still 
remained  so,  which  gave  me  the  suspicion  that  he  was 
dead.  White  put  his  hand  in  another  pocket,  took  out 
nothing  but  a  piece  of  paper,  and  was  going  to  read  it. 
'  Damn  ye  ! '  said  Mahony,  '  don't  stand  to  read  it ! ' : 
And  then  Jones,  the  cooper,  still  watching,  saw  a  person's 
hand  on  the  throat  of  this  gentleman,  and  heard  the 
person  say,  "  'Tis  done,  and  well  done.11  "  It  was  a  hand 
whiter  than  that  of  a  common  sailor.  I  have  often  seen 
Mahony's  and  White's  hands,  and  I  thought  the  hand  was 
whiter  than  either  of  theirs.11  That  white  hand  is  beyond 
a  doubt  the  hand  of  Captain  Samuel  Goodere.  He  has 
been  at  the  door  all  the  time,  naked  cutlass  in  hand,  waving 
back  any  whom  chance  brought  at  that  hour  near  the 
purser's  cabin.  He  has  taken  a  candle  from  Buchanan 
and  handed  it  into  the  cabin  to  illuminate  the  better  what 
was  passing  within.  And  now,  somewhere  about  three 
o'clock,  the  stockings  have  been  shifted,  and  Mahony  and 
White  will  soon  be  on  their  way  to  Bristol  in  the  captain's 
own  boat  with  a  store  of  guineas  and  a  gold  watch.  The 
captain  has  locked  the  door  of  the  purser's  cabin  and  put 
Buchanan  on  duty  there  again,  with  orders  to  fetch  him  if 
the  madman  make  any  noise — a  rather  unlikely  eventuality. 
Jones,  the  cooper,  and  Mrs.  Jones  were  not  the  only 
persons  on  board  who  had  heard  something  of  this  pro- 

178 


HOUSE   OF  GOODERE 

ceeding  in  the  purser's  cabin.  Mr.  Dudgeon,  the  surgeon's 
mate,  sleeping  three  yards  off  from  the  same  cabin,  had 
been  similarly  awakened,  and  had  heard  quite  enough  to 
satisfy  him  that  some  foul  work  was  being  done  on  the  old 
madman.  As  soon  as  he  heard  the  captain  lock  the  door 
of  the  purser's  cabin  and  return  to  his  own  he  got  up 
stealthily  and,  groping  in  the  dark,  came  across  Mr. 
Heathorne,  the  watch.  He  could  not  see  his  features, 
but,  recognising  his  voice,  whispered,  "Mr.  Heathorne, 
here  hath  been  a  hellish  cabal  to-night.  I  believe  they 
have  murdered  the  gentleman."  His  suspicions  were  con- 
firmed when  Heathorne  told  him  that  the  captain  had 
ordered  the  boat  out  to  take  some  one  on  shore. 
Determined  to  know  the  worst,  the  two  men  crept 
down  to  the  purser's  cabin  and  questioned  Buchanan, 
who  was  still  on  guard.  In  a  short  time  they  were  joined 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones,  "shaking  and  trembling,"  the 
horror  of  the  night  still  on  them.  They  told  their  story, 
and  it  was  agreed  that  it  should  be  communicated  without 
delay  to  the  lieutenant.  But  first  they  would  satisfy 
themselves  that  the  gentleman  was  really  dead.  In  the 
wall  of  the  steward's  cabin,  which  divided  it  from  the 
purser's,  there  was  a  scuttle.  As  they  drew  it  a  cat  flew 
out  in  their  faces — an  unpleasant  shock  to  these  awe- 
stricken  men,  harrowed  by  the  experiences  of  the  night. 
Recovered  from  this  surprise,  they  looked  again  and  saw 
the  gentleman  lying  on  the  bed  in  the  posture  Jones  had 
described  to  them.  About  his  neck  a  cloth  was  tied,  and 
on  the  neck  itself  were  marks  of  finger-nails ;  blood  was 
oozing  from  his  nose  and  mouth,  all  things  pointing  to  a 
recent  strangulation.  The  cooper  prodded  the  body  with 
a  long  stick,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  life. 

Mr.  Dudgeon  at  once  acquainted  the  lieutenant  with 
these  facts,  but  it  was  agreed  that  no  action  should  be 
taken  till  the  morning.  There  was  an  evident  reluctance 
on  the  part  of  the  officers  to  accept  the  responsibility  of 

179 


THE   FALL  OF  THE 

laying  hands  on  their  captain.  Apart  from  his  rank,  he 
had  always  behaved  to  them  in  a  "  very  genteel  manner,"" 
and  it  seemed  to  them  very  painful  to  be  obliged  now  to 
seize  him  as  a  fratricide.  The  lieutenant  declined  to 
prevent  Mahony  and  White  from  leaving  the  ship,  as  they 
had  the  captain's  permission.  He  would  wait  till  morning, 
to  see  if  the  gentleman  was  really  dead,  a  fact  which  was 
hardly  beyond  doubt.  At  eight  in  the  morning  he  still 
refused  to  proceed  any  further  until  he  had  seen  whether 
or  no  the  captain  sent  down  to  the  purser's  cabin.  When 
the  captain  invited  Mr.  Dudgeon  and  the  lieutenant  to 
breakfast  with  him  they  accepted  his  invitation.  Indeed, 
it  is  difficult  to  say  what  course  they  would  have  pursued 
had  not  the  cooper,  Jones,  indignant  at  the  crime  of  which 
he  had  been  an  accidental  witness,  declared  his  intention 
of  writing  to  the  Admiralty  and  the  Mayor  of  Bristol  if 
the  lieutenant  still  refused  to  arrest  the  murderer.  Jones's 
determination  proved  effectual,  and  the  lieutenant  took 
the  necessary  steps  to  secure  his  commander. 

Accompanied  by  Jones  and  Buchanan,  he  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  captain's  cabin  and  asked  him  to  come 
out  and  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  him.  The  captain,  his 
suspicions  aroused,  declined  the  invitation.  The  lieutenant 
opened  the  door  and  went  in,  followed  by  the  two  others. 
As  they  laid  hold  of  Goodere  he  exclaimed,  "  Hey  !  hey  ! 
what  have  I  done  ? "  and  when  they  told  him  the  reason 
of  his  arrest  he  added,  "  What  if  the  villains  have 
murdered  my  brother  ?  can  I  help  it  ?  I  know  nothing 
of  it."  The  same  night  Mahony  and  White  were  taken 
in  Bristol. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  murder  of  Sir  John  Goodere, 
Bart.,  by  his  brother,  Captain  Samuel  Goodere,  of  the 
Ruby  man-of-war.  Apart  from  the  consanguinity  of  the 
two  principal  actors,  the  crime  is  one  fraught  with  circum- 
stances of  peculiar  horror;  the  age  of  the  victim,  the 
cruelty  of  his  treatment,  his  seizure  bv  ruffians  in  the  open 

180 


HOUSE   OF   GOODERE 

streets  of  Bristol,  his  imprisonment  in  the  dark  cabin  of 
the  man-of-war,  his  six  hours1  agony,  and  finally  his  brutal 
assassination,  are  in  themselves  sufficiently  shocking  occur- 
rences. But  in  this  instance  the  ordinary  circumstances 
of  violent  crime  are  heightened  by  touches  which  would 
have  been  highly  creditable  to  a  writer  of  romance. 
Leslie  Stephen  has  written  of  the  white  hand  seen  by  the 
ship's  cooper  through  the  crack  in  the  partition ; l  and 
there  are  many  other  incidents  hardly  less  ghastly  which 
embellish  that  night  of  murder  in  the  bowels  of  His 
Majesty's  ship  the  Ruby. 

The  trial  of  Captain  Goodere  and  Matthew  Mahony 
took  place  at  Bristol,  on  March  26th,  "before  Serjeant 
Michael  Foster,  Recorder  of  that  city,  afterwards  a  dis- 
tinguished judge  of  the  Court  of  King's  Bench.  The  story 
of  the  murder  was  recapitulated  at  length  by  the  various 
witnesses,  and  its  completeness  left  no  hope  of  acquittal  for 
the  prisoners.  Certain  points  of  law  raised  by  Captain 
Goodere's  counsel  were  speedily  overruled.  The  captain 
himself  attempted  to  meet  the  charge  by  calling  evidence 
of  his  brother's  insanity  and  his  own  respectability.  In 
regard  to  the  first  point,  though  undoubtedly  eccentric,  the 
baronet  seems  to  have  been  considered  quite  sane  by  those 
who  knew  him  best.  From  what  he  himself  said  to 
Mahony  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  he  would  appear  to 
have  at  one  time  rather  aggravated  his  peculiar  temper  by 
drinking  too  much  wine,  but  for  two  years  before  his  death 
he  had  been  a  water-drinker.  As  to  the  captain's  other 
defence,  it  is  immediately  obvious  that  neighbourly  kind- 
ness and  punctual  attendance  at  divine  service — pleasant 
features  in  the  captain's  disposition  sworn  to  by  his 
witnesses — cannot  be  considered  as  valid  excuses  for 
fratricide. 

The  captain's  conduct  after  sentence  of  death  had  been 
passed  upon  him  was  a  strange  mixture  of  penitence  for  his 
1  Essay  on  "  State  Trials  "  in  vol.  iii.  of  Hours  in  a  Library. 
181 


THE   FALL   OF  THE 

crime  and  a  desire  to  avoid  his  punishment.  He  not  only 
addressed  repeated  petitions  to  his  friends  to  intercede  for  his 
life,  but  conspired  with  certain  colliers  to  rescue  him  on  the 
day  of  execution.  At  the  same  time  he  admitted  that  justice 
had  most  deservedly  overtaken  him,  regretted  that  he  had 
involved  Mahony  and  White  in  a  similar  fate,  and,  when 
all  hope  of  pardon  was  at  an  end,  met  his  death  with 
fortitude.  He  was  executed  with  his  two  accomplices  at 
eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  April  20th,  and  next  day 
his  body  was  carried  in  a  hearse  with  six  horses  to  Hereford, 
where  it  was  buried  along  with  that  of  his  murdered 
brother  and  those  of  his  honourable  ancestors. 


In  1809  a  poor  knight  of  Windsor  died  at  the  advanced 
age  of  eighty.  This  poor  knight  was  the  last  survivor  of 
the  House  of  Goodere,  Sir  John  Dinely  Goodere,  Bart., 
second  son  of  Captain  Samuel  Goodere,  who  had  been 
executed  for  fratricide  in  1741.  The  death  of  his  elder 
brother,  Edward,  had  brought  him  the  baronetcy.  That 
eccentricity  which  had  marked  the  proceedings  of  his 
immediate  ancestors  was  developed  to  the  point  of  mania 
in  the  poor  knight  of  Windsor.  He  had  sold  the  family 
estates  of  Burhope,  and  the  charity  of  Lord  North  procured 
him  his  pension  and  residence  at  Windsor.  There  he  was 
noted  for  his  exaggerated  frugality,  his  costume  of  the  time 
of  George  II.,  in  which  he  always  appeared  on  important 
occasions,  and  the  fantastic  proposals  of  marriage  which  he 
delivered  in  printed  form  and  with  courtly  gravity  to  any 
lady  who  attracted  his  attention.  When,  twice  or  thrice 
a  year,  he  visited  Vauxhall  or  the  theatres,  he  publicly 
announced  the  fact  in  the  fashionable  newspapers,  and 
repeated  his  offers  of  marriage  to  any  ladies  who  would 
take  advantage  of  the  advertisement  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  odd,  old  gentleman.  At  Windsor  he  lived  by 
himself,  and  locked  up  his  house  when  he  went  out. 

182 


HOUSE   OF   GOODERE 

Unless  the  presence  of  royalty  demanded  the  faded 
magnificence  of  the  suit  of  the  time  of  George  II.,  he  made 
his  purchases  in  the  town  clad  in  a  large  cloak  or  roquelaure 
which  concealed  all  but  a  pair  of  dirty  silk  stockings  ; 
a  formidable  umbrella  and  pattens  completed  his  equipment. 
This  strange,  fantastic  figure  of  a  man  represented  the  last 
chapter  in  the  strange  and  bloody  story  of  his  house.  At 
his  death  the  title  became  extinct ;  but  in  The  State  Trials, 
The  Newgate  Calendar  and  The  Penny  Magazine  the 
House  of  Goodere  enjoys  a  celebrity  beyond  that  to  be 
acquired  in  the  staid  columns  of  The  Extinct  Baronetage. 


183 


The    Fualdes    Case 


185 


THE  FUALDfeS   CASE 

FROM  a  lofty  eminence,  some  1,800  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea,  the  ancient  city  of  Rodez  frowns,  with  grim  and 
sinister  aspect,  on  the  rugged  and  hilly  country  of  the 
Aveyron  department,  which  surrounds  and  shuts  it  in 
from  the  rest  of  France.  At  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century  the  inhabitants  of  Rodez,  remote  from  the  higher 
civilisation  of  Paris  and  the  great  cities,  communicating 
with  difficulty  with  their  neighbours,  yet  retained  some- 
thing of  the  roughness  and  violence,  the  lawlessness  and 
cunning  that  had  made  them  in  the  Middle  Ages  such 
useful  subjects  to  the  ruthless  Counts  of  Armagnac.  Since 
Henry  IV.  incorporated  Rodez  into  the  kingdom  of  France, 
the  city  had  lost  all  political  importance;  she  led  her 
own  solitary  existence,  comparatively  undisturbed  by 
external  commotions.  Revolution,  Empire,  the  White 
Terror  of  the  Restoration,  had  left  little  trace  on  her 
history ;  the  bitter  animosities  that  troubled  France  after 
the  return  of  Louis  XVIII.  to  his  throne  were  ineffectual 
to  seriously  compromise  her  peace.  If  within  her  gates 
there  were  angry  feuds  dividing  and  agitating  the  families 
of  some  of  her  most  important  and  respectable  citizens, 
these  sprang  from  motives  personal  rather  than  political, 
private  rather  than  public. 

Suddenly,  on  the  morning  of  March  20th,  1817,  Rodez 
woke  from  her  "ancient,  solitary"  repose  to  find  herself 
on  the  threshold  of  a  lurid  notoriety  that  was  to  attract 
to  her  steep  and  narrow  streets,  and  her  rough  citizens, 

187 


THE  FUALDF.S  CASE 

the  regard  not  only  of  all  France,  but,  in  time,  that  of 
Europe  as  well. 

What  a  French  writer  has  styled  the  cause  celebre 
par  excellence  *  was  upon  her.  The  dead  body  of  one 
of  her  most  noteworthy  inhabitants,  a  man  who  had 
played  his  small  part  in  the  drama  of  the  Parisian  Terror, 
and  held  judicial  office  under  Napoleon,  had  been  taken 
out  of  the  river  Aveyron,  some  half  a  league  away  from 
Rodez,  at  daybreak  on  March  20th,  bearing  every  trace 
of  foul  and  deliberate  murder.  The  story  of  that  murder, 
the  strange  circumstances  that  accompanied  it,  the  perjury 
and  intimidation  that  beset  at  every  turn  the  course  of 
justice,  go  far  to  warrant  the  supremacy  accorded  by 
M.  Fouquier  to  the  case,  best  known  to  posterity  by  the 
name  of  its  victim,  Antoine  Bernardin  Fualdes. 

In  the  March  of  1817  M.  Fualdes  was  nearly  fifty-six 
years  of  age.  Originally  an  advocate,  the  Revolution 
drew  him  for  a  short  time  into  politics,  and  he  became 
one  of  the  foremost  republicans  in  Rodez.  Thence,  in 
1793,  he  was  summoned  to  Paris  to  serve  as  one  of 
the  permanent  jurymen  attached  to  the  newly  created 
Revolutionary  Tribunal.  But  the  functions  of  a  revo- 
lutionary juryman  were  little  to  his  taste.  After  taking 
part  in  the  conviction  of  Charlotte  Corday,  and  barely 
escaping  popular  ill-treatment  for  having  voted  for  the 
acquittal  of  the  unfortunate  General  Custine,  he  left  Paris 
and  disappeared  from  public  life  until  after  the  fall  of 
Robespierre.  He  was  then  appointed  a  judge  of  the 
Criminal  Court  of  Rodez ;  he  held  with  success  various 
judicial  offices  until  the  reorganisation  of  the  law  courts 
under  Napoleon,  when  he  was  nominated  to  the  post  of 
Procureur  Imperial  attached  to  the  Tribunal  of  First 
Instance  in  that  city.  On  the  return  of  the  Bourbons 
he  prudently  resigned  his  office,  and  by  so  doing  received 
a  pension  instead  of  summary  dismissal.  At  the  time  of 
1  A.  Fouquier,  Causes  Celebres  de  tons  les  Peuples,  vol.  v. 
188 


THE  FUALDES  CASE 

his  death  Fualdes  was  engaged  in  selling  landed  property 
and  winding  up  his  affairs,  with  a  view  to  settling  down  in 
an  easy  and  honourable  retirement. 

About  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  March  19th 
M.  Fualdes  had  left  home  with  a  packet  of  papers  under 
his  arm,  to  keep  a  business  appointment.  About  half-past 
eight  the  same  evening  his  walking-stick  was  picked  up  at 
the  corner  of  a  street  known  as  the  Rue  des  Hebdomadiers, 
a  narrow,  sordid  alley  containing  at  least  one  house  of 
notoriously  ill  repute.  Between  eight  and  nine  passers-by 
had  observed  a  rather  unusual  commotion  going  forward 
in  this  usually  silent  and  deserted  street — men  going  to 
and  fro,  a  sentinel  posted  as  if  watching  for  some  one,  the 
arrival  of  the  one  so  eagerly  expected,  who  seemed  to  answer 
in  some  particulars  to  the  description  of  M.  Fualdes,  then 
a  noise  as  of  a  struggle  and  cries  and  moans  proceeding 
from  the  house  of  ill  repute,  and  all  this  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  couple  of  barrel-organs  that  paraded  the 
street  for  a  whole  hour,  from  eight  to  nine,  making  night 
hideous,  seeking  as  it  were  to  drown,  by  their  incessant 
grinding,  all  other  disquieting  noises.  A  little  after  nine, 
a  few  steps  from  the  house  of  ill  repute,  some  one  picked 
up  a  dirty  pocket-handkerchief,  twisted  and  bitten,  as 
though  it  had  served  as  a  gag. 

The  river  Aveyron,  which  runs  by  the  city  of  Rodez, 
is  about  seven  furlongs  distant  from  the  Rue  des 
Hebdomadiers.  The  way  from  this  street  to  the  river-side 
lies  by  the  Rue  du  Terral,  through  the  Place  de  TEveche, 
on  which  stands  the  cathedral,  and  then  out  at  one  of  the 
city  gates  on  to  the  Boulevard  d'Estourmel,  which  runs 
along  the  bank  of  the  river.  About  ten  o'clock  on  the 
night  of  the  19th,  along  this  very  line  of  route,  at  three 
different  places,  by  the  cathedral,  on  the  Boulevard 
d'Estourmel,  in  some  gardens  at  the  river's  edge,  four 
persons  spoke  to  meeting  a  procession  of  men  carrying 
some  heavy  burden,  preceded  by  a  man  of  exceptionally 

189 


THE   FUALDF.S   CASE 

tall  stature,  carrying  what  appeared  to  be  a  gun  or  thick 
stick,  whose  threatening  aspect  effectually  discouraged 
curiosity  or  comment.  The  following  morning  the  corpse 
of  M.  Fualdes,  fully  dressed,  was  dragged  out  of  the  river 
by  a  woman  who  had  noticed  a  dark  bundle  floating  on 
the  water.  A  huge  wound  in  the  throat,  apparently 
inflicted  with  a  rather  blunt  knife,  that  had  severed  the 
larynx,  the  jugular  vein,  and  the  left  carotid  artery,  was 
the  one  and  sufficient  cause  of  death.  M.  Fualdes  had 
been  clearly  the  victim  of  assassination ;  it  only  remained 
to  discover  the  assassins. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  circumstances  already 
narrated  directed  the  attention  of  the  judicial  authorities 
to  that  forbidding  Rue  des  Hebdomadiers,  and  from  the 
street  to  the  house  of  ill  repute  therein  situate,  as  the 
probable  scene  of  Fualdes'  murder.  This  house  was 
tenanted  by  a  couple  of  the  name  of  Bancal,  sordid  and 
impecunious,  who  eked  out  the  precarious  earnings  of  the 
man  as  a  mason  by  taking  in  lodgers  and  letting  out  their 
own  squalid  apartments  as  a  meeting-place  for  clandestine 
lovers  of  all  classes,  who  would  feel  well  ensured  against 
discovery  in  so  obscure  and  undesirable  a  neighbourhood. 
Various  unusual  occurrences  in  the  Bancal  household  had 
provoked  the  neighbours'  criticism  on  the  day  following 
the  disappearance  of  Fualdes.  The  floor  of  their  kitchen 
had  been  scrubbed  very  recently ;  the  woman  Bancal  had 
been  to  the  river  with  some  washing,  but  had  come  back 
without  it ;  the  man  had  paid  a  debt  of  thirty  sous,  an 
altogether  unwonted  proceeding  on  his  part ;  their  eldest 
daughter  appeared  to  be  in  a  state  of  ill-disguised  terror ; 
and  lastly,  on  search  being  made,  a  quantity  of  blood- 
stained linen  was  discovered  by  the  police  hidden  away 
under  the  staircase. 

On  the  Bancals'  second  floor  there  resided,  as  their 
lodger,  a  sinister  individual  of  the  name  of  Colard.  This 
man's  supreme  ambition  in  life  was  to  fill  the  post  of 

190 


THE  FUALDF.S  CASE 

public  executioner,  but  unfortunately  the  office  was  not  at 
the  moment  vacant.  In  the  meantime  he  lived  on  his 
mistress,  the  woman  Anne  Benoit,  who  took  in  washing. 
Colard  was  himself  dissatisfied  with  the  existing  social 
system,  and  looked  back  with  regret  to  the  period  when 
the  guillotine  played  a  more  conspicuous  part  in  the 
solution  of  social  and  political  differences.  He  held  openly 
the  opinion  that  a  man  who  had  twenty-five  louis  deserved 
to  be  shot,  and  expressed  himself  as  fully  prepared  to 
pull  the  trigger  in  such  a  case — if  he  thought  no  one  was 
looking.  He  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time  at  the  house 
of  the  public  executioner,  to  whom  he  must  have  been 
a  thoroughly  inspiring  companion. 

Immediately  after  the  murder  of  Fualdes,  the  mistress 
of  this  Colard,  whilst  denying  to  the  police  any  knowledge 
of  what  had  passed  at  the  Bancals1  on  the  night  of  the  19th, 
let  fall  certain  observations  which  revealed  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  circumstances  of  the  crime.  "  Fancy,11  she 
said  to  a  neighbour,  "they  bled  him  on  the  table  like  a 
pig.11  She  admitted  that  the  handkerchief  picked  up  in 
the  street  was  hers.  When  Colard  was  questioned  about 
the  crime,  he  merely  answered,  with  an  air  of  mystery, 
"  There'll  be  a  good,  many  more.11  To  obviate  any  such 
repetitions,  the  examining  magistrate  issued  warrants  on 
March  22nd  for  the  arrest  of  Colard,  the  two  Bancals,  and 
their  daughter  Marianne. 

Two  more  arrests  were  made  on  the  24th.  Jean 
Bousquier,  a  stableman  of  hitherto  respectable  character, 
sitting  in  a  tavern,  talking,  on  the  night  of  the  20th, 
had  remarked,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  he 
had  been  very  well  paid  for  a  load  he  had  carried  the 
night  before.  "  Ah  ! "  said  one  of  the  other  topers, 
"  perhaps  M.  Fualdes  was  inside  it.11  "  Perhaps,11  replied 
Bousquier;  "it  was  heavy  enough.11  It  was  recollected 
that  this  same  Bousquier  had  been  in  the  tavern  about 
eight  o'clock  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  waiting,  as  he 

191 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

said,  for  a  man  who  had  engaged  him  to  carry  a  bale  of 
contraband  tobacco,  and  that  about  ten  o'clock  this  man 
had  come  in  and  fetched  him  away.  Bousquier  was 
arrested.  He  said  that  the  man  who  had  employed  him 
was  an  individual  named  Bach.  He  too  was  arrested. 

So  far  the  murder  of  Fualdes  would  appear  to  have 
been  little  better  than  the  commonplace  handiwork  of 
daring  ruffians,  who  had  waylaid,  robbed,  and  murdered  a 
respectable  middle-aged  gentlemen.  But  great  was  the 
astonishment  of  the  city  of  Rodez  when,  three  days  after 
the  arrest  of  Bach,  that  is,  on  March  27th,  two  of  her 
most  influential  and  important  citizens  were  clapped  into 
prison,  charged,  on  very  grave  suspicion,  with  being  the 
prime  movers  and  instigators  in  the  assassination  of  the 
worthy  ex-magistrate,  and  the  charge  appeared  the  more 
heinous  from  the  fact  that  both  the  inculpated  persons 
had  been  close  friends  of  the  murdered  man,  and  one 
of  them  his  relation  by  marriage.  This  was  a  certain 
Jausion,  a  banker  and  broker,  a  precise  and  avaricious 
man  of  business,  said  to  be  hard  and  usurious,  but  enjoy- 
ing a  reputation  for  commercial  integrity.  He  was  known 
to  have  had  business  dealings  with  his  kinsman  Fualdes. 
His  companion  in  arrest  was  his  brother-in-law,  Bastide- 
Gramont,  a  man  of  exceptionally  large  stature,  who  lived 
a  little  way  outside  Rodez.  His  character  and  reputation 
were  the  very  reverse  of  his  brother-in-law's.  Coarse  and 
brutal,  he  spent  more  than  his  modest  means  would  allow 
on  wine  and  women.  He  was  bold,  daring,  and  unscru- 
pulous. If  rumour  was  to  be  believed,  he  had  on  one 
occasion  demanded  money  from  his  father,  and,  on  being 
refused,  had  held  a  pistol  to  his  parent's  head.  His 
short  way  with  importunate  creditors  was  to  threaten 
them  with  death.  But  it  was  not  alone  his  exceptional 
stature  that  seemed  to  identify  Bastide  with  the  tall, 
burly  man  who  had  been  described  as  leading  the  mysterious 
procession  that  wended  its  way  towards  the  banks  of  the 

192 


THE   FUALDES  CASE 

river  on  the  night  of  March  19th.  There  was  more  than 
that  to  connect  him  with  the  tragedy  of  M.  Fualdes' 
death.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  19th  Bastide  had  been 
seen  talking  to  Fualdes  in  the  street ;  he  was  overheard 
making  an  appointment  with  him  for  eight  o'clock  that 
evening  ;  the  discussion  had  been  heated.  "  So  that  is 
the  way  you  propose  to  keep  your  word  to  me !  "  exclaimed 
Fualdes.  "Don't  worry,""  Bastide  was  heard  to  reply, 
"  I'll  clear  up  my  account  with  you  this  evening.11  Certain 
incidents  that  had  taken  place  in  the  course  of  the  day 
following  the  crime,  coupled  with  the  discoveries  made  by 
the  son  of  Fualdes  when,  on  his  arrival  in  Rodez,  he  tried 
to  set  in  order  his  father's  papers,  cast  still  graver  suspicion 
on  both  Bastide  and  Jausion.  Of  his  father's  papers,  of 
those  more  particularly  that  related  to  his  financial  affairs, 
the  son  could  make  little  or  nothing.  He  found  them  in 
hopeless  confusion,  all  the  most  important  missing.  This 
was  the  more  astonishing  as  he  knew  his  father  to  be  very 
regular  and  punctilious  in  such  matters,  and  to  have  been 
at  the  time  of  his  death  on  the  point  of  setting  his  affairs 
in  order,  previous  to  his  approaching  retirement  to  the 
property  which  he  had  purchased  in  the  country.  It  was 
from  his  father's  servants  that  the  son  first  obtained  a  clue 
to  the  strange  disorder  in  which  he  found  the  drawers  and 
cupboards  in  his  father's  room.  That  room  had  been 
visited  on  March  20th,  first  by  Bastide,  and  later  by 
Jausion.  During  the  morning  of  that  day  a  maid  of 
Madame  Fualdes'  had  met  Bastide  on  the  staircase,  had 
followed  him  up,  seen  him  enter  M.  Fualdes'  room,  and 
there  rummage  and  search  in  a  chest  of  drawers,  which  he 
afterwards  locked,  giving  the  key  to  another  of  the 
servants  with  a  direction  to  return  it  to  Madame  Fualdes. 
Later  in  the  morning,  according  to  the  evidence  of  another 
servant,  Jausion  arrived  at  the  house,  accompanied  by  his 
wife  and  sister-in-law.  They  also  made  for  the  room 
of  the  murdered  man.  There  Jausion  borrowed  a  hatchet, 

193  o 


THE   FUALD^S   CASE 

broke  into  certain  chests  and  cupboards,  and  carried  off 

a   bag,    warning   the   servant,  a   man    of  rather   limited 

intelligence,  not  to  mention  this  circumstance  to  any  one. 

In    the    light   of  these   extraordinary   proceedings,    it 

seemed  only  reasonable  to  place  Bastide  and  Jausion  under 

arrest.      They  both  protested  their  innocence.      Jausion 

at  first  denied  that  he  had  visited  the  house  of  Fualdes  on 

the  20th.       Later  he  admitted  the  visit  and  the  breaking 

open  of  a  cupboard,  but  said  that  in  so  doing  he  had  acted 

in  his  kinsman^s  interests.    In  the  meantime  the  magistrate 

in    charge   of  the   case   had   procured   from    one    of  the 

humbler    participators    in    the   crime    a   confession    that 

directly  implicated  Bastide.     This  came  from  Bousquier, 

the  man  who  had  been  hired  by  Bach  on  the  night  of  the 

murder  to  carry  what  he  was  pleased  to  term  a  load  of 

contraband  tobacco.      He  said  that  he  had  been  taken  by 

Bach  to  the  house  of  the  Bancals,  that  there  he  found, 

besides    the   Bancals   themselves,  Colard,  a  cutler  named 

Missonier,   a   woman  whom   he   did  not  know,  and   two 

gentlemen,  one  of  whom  he  identified   unhesitatingly  as 

Bastide ;  but  he  could  not  say  for  certain  that  the  other, 

the  shorter  of  the  two,  was  Jausion.     He  was  shown    a 

bundle  wrapped  up  in  some  woollen  material,  and  told  it 

was    a    corpse,    Bastide   threatening   to    kill   him    if  he 

divulged  the  fact.     He  then  described  the  journey  to  the 

river,  corroborating  the  evidence  of  those  passers-by  who 

had  deposed  to  meeting  such  a  procession  on  the  night  of 

the  19th.     Besides  this  confession  of  Bousquier,  the  two 

little  children  of  the  Bancals,  a  boy  of  eight  and  a  little 

girl,  Magdeleine,  let  fall  to  those  who  had  charge  of  them 

at  the  hospital  whither  they  had  been  removed  after  their 

parents1  arrest,  observations  that  shed  some  further  light 

on  the  manner  of  P'ualdes'1  death.       "  I  saw  them  bring 

a  gentleman  in  from  the  Place  de  la  Cite,"  said  the  little 

girl.    "  He  was  very  naughty,  and  wouldn't  keep  still  on  the 

table,  so  that  it  upset."     The  boy  said  :  "  Two  gentlemen 

194 


THE   FUALDES  CASE 

came  to  our  house  :  one  of  them  had  big  boots  on ;  they 
brought  in  a  gentleman  who  was  ill  and  put  him  on 
the  table  ;  that's  why  they've  sent  papa  to  prison." 

But  these  partial  avowals,  these  stray  hints  that  some 
of  the  prisoners  had  allowed  to  escape  them  as  to  the 
events  of  March  19th  were  soon  to  be  superseded  by 
a  detailed  confession  of  a  dying  man,  obtained  under 
circumstances  of  a  solemn  and  dramatic  character.  The 
man  Bancal,  in  whose  house  it  was  evident  the  murder  had 
been  committed,  overcome  by  remorse,  had  attempted  his 
life  in  the  prison  at  Rodez.  In  the  bottom  of  a  shoe  he 
had  soaked  some  copper  coins  in  vinegar,  and  so  concocted 
a  solution  of  verdigris.  This  he  drank,  and,  though  an 
emetic  was  administered  to  him,  the  poison  worked  with 
rapidly  fatal  result  on  a  man  who  was  already  suffering 
from  gaol  fever.  Death  was  approaching ;  the  wretched 
man  begged  that  he  might  see  a  priest.  On  May  1st  the 
priest  arrived  at  the  prison.  He  brought  with  him  a  friend, 
and  it  is  from  a  letter  written  by  the  priest's  secular  com- 
panion to  one  of  the  deputies  for  the  Aveyron  department 
that  we  derive  a  full  report  of  Bancal's  confession.  For- 
tunately the  confession  had  not  partaken  of  a  strictly 
religious  character ;  though,  from  considerations  of  justice, 
it  was  not  used  at  the  trial,  it  remains  the  most  complete 
account  of  the  actual  circumstances  of  the  murder  of 
Fualdes  and  was  borne  out  in  all  its  principal  details  by 
the  evidence  subsequently  given  in  the  courts  of  law.  The 
priest  had  found  Bancal  in  a  very  communicative  frame 
of  mind.  The  wretched  man  had  only  a  day  or  two  to 
live  ;  he  declared  himself  to  be  haunted  by  the  spectre  of 
M.  Fualdes.  It  was  the  first  of  May  ;  the  birds  were 
singing  in  the  garden  of  a  convent  adjoining  the  prison. 
"  Ah !  they  sing  because  they're  not  shut  up  in  a  cell," 
exclaimed  the  dying  man.  "  No,"  replied  the  priest, 
"  because  they're  innocent.  God  sends  joy  to  the  innocent. 
There  was  a  time  when  you  sang  in  the  vineyards."  "  I 

195 


THE  FUALDES  CASE 

didn't  sing  on  the  19th  of  March,"  groaned  the  prisoner, 

"  when  my  little  Magdeleine ."  And  so,  by  easy 

stages,  the  priest  led  the  culprit  on  to  the  revelation 
of  the  truth. 

According  to  Bancal,  miserable  poverty  and  a  bad  wife 
had  been  the  causes  of  his  downfall.  His  poverty  was  no 
doubt  acute,  and,  if  his  confession  is  to  be  believed,  his 
wife  had  been  of  two  minds  as  to  allowing  her  own  child  to 
be  murdered  for  500  frs.  The  Bancals,  for  some  time 
previous  to  the  crime,  had  been  acquainted  with  the 
principal  actors  in  the  tragedy  of  Fualdes1*  death.  Bastide 
made  use  of  their  house  as  a  convenient  place  for  carrying 
on  his  illicit  love  affairs,  while  from  both  the  families  of 
Jausion  and  Fualdes  they  had  received  charitable  assist- 
ance  of  a  modest  kind  in  the  way  of  loaves  of  bread 
and  the  leavings  of  the  table.  Indeed,  Bancal,  on  his 
death-bed,  complained  of  the  very  trifling  character  of  the 
help  thus  extended  to  him,  and  pronounced  Jausion  to  be 
a  cunning  skinflint. 

The  first  hints  that  Bancal  received  that  any  ex- 
ceptional proceeding,  affecting  him,  was  in  contemplation 
on  the  part  of  two  of  his  benefactors,  were  mysterious 
allusions  dropped  by  Bastide  and  Jausion  to  means  they 
were  about  to  afford  him  of  relieving  the  grinding  penury 
in  which  he  had  lived  so  long.  But  his  wife  would  seem 
to  have  been  more  in  the  confidence  of  the  conspirators 
than  he  was.  The  murder  of  Fualdes  was  originally  to 
have  taken  place  in  a  stable  belonging  to  the  cutler, 
Missonier  ;  but  he  had  a  lodger,  a  professional  beggar, 
who  came  home  at  nine  and  went  to  bed  at  uncertain 
hours.  Consequently,  at  the  last  moment,  the  scene  was 
shifted  to  the  Bancals''  tenement,  a  sudden  change  of  venue 
that  will  account  for  some  of  the  serious  misadventures 
that  attended  the  assassins  in  the  execution  of  their 
design. 

On    the  evening   of  the  19th    Bancal  returned   home 

196 


THE   FUALDF.S  CASE 

from  the  vineyard  in  which  he  laboured,  about  half-past 
six.  The  first  thing  that  struck  him  as  unusual  were 
the  violent  performances  of  the  grinders  of  the  hurdy- 
gurdy,  disturbing  the  ignoble  repose  of  the  Rue  des 
Hebdomadiers.  Bancal  expressed  his  opinion  of  their 
efforts  by  throwing  the  remains  of  a  salad  at  the  heads  of 
the  musicians.  But  they  merely  shifted  their  ground  and 
recommenced  a  little  farther  off  with  all  the  added  vigour 
of  remonstrance.  If,  as  has  been  supposed,  these 
musicians  had  been  hired  deliberately  by  the  assassins  of 
Fualdes  to  drown  all  inconvenient  noise,  it  is  plain  that 
the  Bancals  were  only  partially  in  the  secrets  of  the 
conspirators.  It  was  a  quarter  past  eight  when  Colard, 
whose  appetite  for  the  blood  of  the  rich  had  for  some 
days  past  oetrayed  signs  of  approaching  satisfaction,  burst 
into  the  Bancals1  kitchen,  and  abruptly  ordered  them  to 
send  the  children  to  bed,  as  there  was  a  gentleman  coming 
up  the  street  to  keep  an  appointment  with  a  lady.  He 
then  went  out.  He  had  hardly  done  so,  when  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door.  The  woman  Bancal  opened  it  and 
admitted  a  lady  wrapped  in  a  shawl  and  wearing  a  black 
veil.  She  was  trembling.  "  No  one  for  me  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  No  one,""  replied  la  Bancal.  In  the  meantime  the  noise 
in  the  street  was  getting  louder  and  louder,  coming  nearer 
to  the  house ;  the  hurdy-gurdies  shrieked  with  redoubled 
vigour ;  there  was  an  advancing  sound  as  of  men  whistling 
and  shouting.  The  lady  was  terrified  at  the  thought  of 
discovery ;  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  outer  door ; 
she  begged  the  woman  Bancal  to  conceal  her ;  the  latter, 
equally  dismayed,  pushed  her  hurriedly  into  a  cupboard 
and  shut  the  door,  as  Colard  appeared  on  the  threshold  of 
the  kitchen,  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand. 

He  entered  the  room  quickly,  followed  by  a  number  of 
men,  among  them  M.  Bastide  and  M.  Jausion,  breathless 
and  excited,  who  were  dragging  along  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, hatless,  his  clothes  torn  and  dishevelled,  whom 

197 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

Bancal  recognised  immediately  as  M.  Fualdes.  "  In  God's 
name,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ? "  asked  the  bewildered 
gentleman.  "  Your  signature  to  these  papers,"  replied 
Jausion.  "  It  is  a  disgraceful  outrage !  "  cried  Fualdes. 
But  the  protest  passed  unheeded.  Bastide  fetched  a  pen 
and  ink  and  Fualdes  wrote  his  name  on  some  long  papers 
that  Jausion  produced  from  a  letter-case.  As  he  was 
doing  this,  Bancal  saw  Colard  whisper  in  Bastide's  ear  and 
show  him  a  knife,  upon  which  Bastide,  half  laughing, 
exclaimed  "  Good  !  "  Fualdes,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
writing,  asked  if  that  was  all.  "  I  know  you,"  answered 
Jausion.  "  After  what  IVe  just  done  you'll  never  forgive 
me."  "  No  one  knows  better  than  you  what  I  have  for- 
given you,"  retorted  Fualdes,  with  a  sigh.  "  Oh  !  you 
regret  it,  do  you  ?  "  "  Yes,  you  see  he  does  !  "  chimed  in 
Bastide.  And  Colard,  the  enemy  of  wealth,  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  they're  all  like  that,  these  rich  men.  They  think 
they  can  do  anything."  And  then,  in  the  words  of 
Bancal,  "  there  was  a  great  silence,  during  which  we  all 
looked  at  one  another,  and  then  at  M.  Fualdes."  Bastide 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  Come  along,"  he  said, 
"  it's  time  to  finish  this  ! "  Fualdes  asked  for  his  hat. 
Jausion  replied  to  his  request  by  striking  him  twice.  He 
was  pushed  and  hustled  ;  there  was  a  struggle,  during 
which  the  table  was  upset,  and  a  loaf  of  bread  rolled  on  to 
the  floor.  It  was  a  loaf  that  Madame  Fualdes  had  that 
day  given  to  the  Bancals.  Fualdes  recognised  the  bread  ; 
he  threw  up  his  hands  to  heaven  and  began  to  cry. 
Bastide  remarked,  for  the  second  time,  that  it  was  time  to 
have  done  with  the  business.  Fualdes  was  laid  on  the  table, 
Bancal  holding  his  feet.  Colard  produced  his  knife. 
Bancal  turned  away  his  head.  He  heard  two  low  cries, 
then  the  blood  began  to  flow,  and,  as  it  gurgled  on  to  the 
floor,  he  heard  a  faint  voice  saying,  "  Let  me  say  my 
prayers."  "  You  can  say  them  to  the  devil  in  hell,"  replied 
Bastide. 

198 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

M.  Fualdes  dead,  the  murderers  emptied  his  pockets  of 
everything  they  contained.  Whilst  they  were  engaged  in 
this  occupation  Bancal  noticed  that  the  curtains  of  a  bed 
that  stood  in  the  room  moved  slightly.  They  were  drawn 
aside,  and,  to  the  terror  of  Bancal,  disclosed  his  little 
daughter  Magdeleine,  to  all  appearances  asleep.  After 
being  sent  out  of  the  room  by  her  mother,  the  child  must 
have  crept  back  unobserved  and  slipped  behind  the 
curtains  of  the  bed.  What  had  she  seen  or  heard  ?  To 
Bastide  the  only  safe  precaution  was  to  add  another 
murder  to  the  night's  work,  and  he  offered  the  parents 
500  francs  as  compensation  for  their  daughter's  sacrifice. 
The  mother,  who,  according  to  her  husband,  "  always  had 
an  eye  to  the  main  chance,"  looked  at  the  father  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Well,  shall  we  take  it  ?  "  "  No,  never  !  "  cried 
Bancal,  as  he  caught  the  little  girl  to  his  arms.  Then  he 
knew,  as  she  lay  in  his  embrace,  that  she  was  feigning  sleep, 
that  she  must  have  seen  something  of  the  horrid  work  ; 
but  he  held  his  tongue,  and  set  about  giving  the  blood  of 
M.  Fualdes,  that  had  been  caught  up  in  a  bucket,  to  the 
pigs  to  drink.  The  pigs  having  done  justice  to  the 
repast,  what  was  left  was  thrown  into  the  gutter. 

It  was  now  a  question  of  disposing  of  the  body.  This 
was  wrapped  up  in  strong  cloth  and  the  bundle  tightly 
corded.  It  only  remained  to  send  for  Bousquier,  who  was 
to  carry  it  to  the  river.  Bastide  did  not  want  him  to  see 
the  bundle  before  he  shouldered  it.  He  accordingly  sug- 
gested that  in  the  meantime  it  should  be  hidden  some- 
where, and,  before  the  Bancals  could  stop  him,  opened  the 
door  of  the  cupboard  in  which  was  concealed  the  lady 
who  had  been  so  suddenly  surprised  by  the  approach  of 
the  murderers.  "  We  are  lost ! "  cried  Bastide  as  he 
dragged  out  the  trembling  woman.  "  I  have  seen  nothing, 
know  nothing,"  stammered  out  the  fearful  lady.  There 
was  a  hurried  consultation  of  the  leaders  of  the  enterprise 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  as  to  what  means  they  should 

199 


THE  FUALDES  CASE 

take  to  ensure  their  safety.  Bastide  and  Colard  were  for 
the  lady's  death,  but  Jausion  would  not  hear  of  it ;  if  they 
touched  a  hair  of  her  head,  he  said,  they  would  have 
to  reckon  with  him  ;  he  had  had  enough  of  assassination 
for  one  night.  Bach  suggested  that  she  should  be  com- 
pelled to  take  an  oath.  Bastide,  though  he  had  little 
faith  in  mere  words,  agreed  to  administer  it,  which  he 
did  in  such  awful  tones  that  even  the  assassins  were 
struck  with  terror.  "  Listen,  madame,"  he  said,  his  voice 
rising  and  growing  deeper  and  more  impressive  as  he 
reached  the  end,  "  if  you  speak  of  what  you  have  seen,  be 
it  by  steel  or  by  poison,  by  water  or  by  fire,  you  shall 
surely  die ! "  Overcome  by  the  hideousness  of  the 
situation — and  it  must  be  allowed  that,  apart  from 
Bastide's  melodrama,  the  scene  was  a  sufficiently  ghastly 
one,  the  dim  and  sordid  kitchen,  the  bloody  thing  that  lay 
stretched  upon  the  table — the  horror-stricken  lady  fainted 
away.  As  soon  as  she  had  partially  recovered,  Jausion 
led  her  into  the  street  and  sent  her  about  her  business. 

Shortly  after  this  untoward  incident  Bousquier  arrived, 
and  the  remains  of  M.  Fualdes  were  consigned  to  the 
river  in  the  manner  already  described. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  BancaPs  death-bed  confession. 
On  the  day  following  it  he  expired.  There  is  no  reason 
to  seriously  impugn  its  accuracy  ;  he  could  at  the  time 
have  had  no  motive  for  misleading  his  auditors,  and  having 
some  heart,  the  unfortunate  man  was,  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  sincerely  contrite  for  his  share  in  the  foul  proceed- 
ing. The  only  matter  in  regard  to  the  actual  commission 
of  the  crime  that  remained  to  be  cleared  up  was  the 
question  of  motive.  What  motive  or  motives  could  have 
been  powerful  enough  to  impel  men  of  the  standing  and 
position  of  Bastide  and  Jausion  to  be  the  perpetrators  of 
so  atrocious  a  murder?  What  had  Fualdes  done  to 
deserve  such  treatment  at  their  hands  ?  The  second 
question  can  be  answered  shortly.  No  serious,  no  justifiable 

200 


THE   FUALDES  CASE 

cause  for  resentment  or  revenge  on  the  part  of  Bastide  and 
Jausion  was  ever  made  out  against  the  murdered  man ; 
had  there  been  any  such  cause  the  murderers  would  have 
assuredly  revealed  it  in  their  own  interests. 

There  was  certainly  a  story  to  the  effect  that  Fualdes, 
some  eight  years  before  the  crime,  had  in  his  judicial 
capacity  used  his  influence  to  save  Jausion  from  the  con- 
sequences of  an  intrigue  which  he  had  carried  on  with  the 
young  wife  of  an  old  and  infirm  cloth  merchant  of  Rodez. 
The  circumstances  attending  the  birth  of  a  child,  of  which 
Jausion  was  presumably  the  father,  had  brought  the 
unfortunate  lady  to  the  bar  of  the  Assize  Court,  charged 
with  the  murder  of  her  infant.  But  a  sympathetic  jury 
acquitted  her,  and  the  name  of  Jausion  had  never  been 
mentioned  in  the  course  of  the  proceedings,  a  favour 
shown  to  him,  it  was  said,  in  consequence  of  his  friendship 
with  the  magistrate,  Fualdes.  After  the  murder,  rumour 
noised  it  abroad  that  in  a  moment  of  anger  Fualdes  had 
threatened  to  revive  the  scandal  and  so  compromise 
publicly  the  reputation  of  the  now  precise  and  respectable 
banker,  who,  in  fear  of  such  an  exposure,  had  been  driven 
to  put  his  relative  beyond  the  chance  of  doing  him  such 
an  injury.  But  there  is  little  reason  to  attach  any  serious 
importance  to  the  story  as  a  real  factor  in  the  crime. 
Jausion  was  anxious,  it  is  true,  to  conceal  or  avoid  the 
consequences  of  misconduct  on  his  part  in  relation  to 
M.  Fualdes  ;  but  that  misconduct  had  in  it  no  element  of 
romance.  It  was  not  passion  that  was  likely  any  longer 
to  tempt  Jausion  to  crime  ;  greed  and  avarice  were  now 
the  masters  of  his  soul. 

Both  Bastide  and  Jausion  were  under  financial  obligations 
to  Fualdes.  Bastide  owed  him  money,  some  10,000  francs. 
He  had  no  means  of  paying  his  debt.  Fualdes,  on  the 
eve  of  a  final  settlement  of  his  affairs,  had  no  doubt 
become  somewhat  importunate.  Bastide,  violent  and  law- 
less in  character,  was  in  the  habit  of  solving  difficulties  of 

201 


this  kind  by  a  resort  to  force.  To  liquidate  his  debt  to 
M.  Fualdes  by  extinguishing  the  creditor  was  not  such 
a  preposterous  solution  to  Bastide-Gramont  as  it  might 
appear  to  more  temperate  men.  With  Jausion  the  case 
was  more  serious.  If  with  him  the  inclination  to  murder 
were  less,  the  motive  was  far  stronger.  In  the  course  of 
his  business  transactions  with  Fualdes  the  latter  had 
placed  in  Jausion's  hands  a  number  of  blank  signatures  to 
be  used  by  Jausion  for  certain  definite  purposes.  These, 
however,  Jausion  had  converted  to  his  own  use,  to  raising 
money  for  his  own  benefit.  At  the  time  of  the  murder 
those  bills  were  becoming  due  ;  Fualdes  was  desirous  of 
regulating  all  outstanding  liabilities  ;  the  fraud  of  Jausion 
was  on  the  brink  of  discovery.  To  extort  from  the 
ex-magistrate  his  signature  to  papers  that  would  set 
Jausion  right  with  the  holders  of  the  fraudulent  bills  was 
the  only  means  by  which  the  latter  could  hope  to  save 
himself  from  disaster.  But  those  signatures  would  be 
valueless  if  Fualdes  survived  the  violence  that  in  all 
probability  would  have  to  be  used  to  extort  them  from 
him.  With  Bastide  at  his  elbow  to  urge  him  on  along 
the  path  of  crime,  Jausion  screwed  his  courage  to  the 
sticking-point,  and  embarked  on  an  enterprise  in  which 
murder,  if  not  clearly  contemplated,  was  at  least  a  highly 
probable  contingency.  To  their  influential  position  in 
Rodez  Bastide  and  Jausion  looked  for  impunity  from  the 
consequences  of  crime.  They  no  doubt  hoped,  if  they  did 
not  actually  believe,  that  intimidation  would  be  a  powerful 
weapon  in  their  hands  to  silence  any  testimony  to  their 
guilt.  How  vigorously  and  effectually  they  exercised  it  in 
more  than  one  instance,  the  sequel  will  show.  Undoubtedly 
some  such  confidence  on  their  part  goes  a  long  way  to 
explain  the  rashly  daring  character  of  their  crime.  One 
must  endeavour  to  realise  in  some  degree  the  peculiar 
social  conditions  of  this  old-fashioned  city,  which  preserved 
in  its  comparative  seclusion  many  of  the  less  desirable 

202 


THE  FUALDF.S  CASE 

characteristics  of  bygone  periods  in  the  history  of  France, 
in  order  to  comprehend  the  apparently  reckless  and  im- 
pudent boldness  that  accompanied  the  murder  of  Fualdes. 

At  the  same  time,  the  cruelty  of  the  murder,  the  intense 
animosity  towards  their  victim  displayed  by  both  Bastide 
and  Jausion,  make  it  pardonable  to  ask  whether  there  was 
not  some  other  cause  than  pecuniary  embarrassment  that 
provoked  these  two  men  to  kill  M.  Fualdes.  According 
to  the  confession  of  Bancal,  both  Bastide  and  Jausion  had 
repeatedly  declared  to  those  present  at  the  assassination 
that  it  was  not  for  his  money  that  they  had  murdered  the 
gentleman,  and  that  he,  Fualdes,  knew  perfectly  well  how 
thoroughly  he  deserved  his  fate.  It  is  given  to  some  men 
to  inspire  dislike,  just  as  it  is  given  to  others,  for  reasons 
difficult  to  define,  to  inspire  regard.  Was  there  something 
in  Fauldes1  way  of  doing  things,  his  manner  of  dealing 
with  men,  that  aggravated  to  a  murderous  pitch  the  evil 
passions  of  two  men  such  as  Bastide  and  Jausion,  who 
were  not  of  a  class  that  usually  gratify  their  settled  hates 
by  assassination  ?  If  there  was  any  cause  of  irritation 
other  than  the  financial  one,  it  cannot  have  been  very 
tangible ;  had  it  been,  it  would  in  all  probability  have 
been  pleaded  at  the  trial ;  but,  to  explain  the  extreme 
atrocity  of  the  crime,  it  is  permissible  to  indulge  in  some 
speculation  as  to  vaguer  motives  that  may  have  swayed 
the  two  principal  actors. 

With  the  help  of  the  confession  of  Bancal,  the  judicial 
authorities  were  ready,  at  the  beginning  of  May,  to  send 
twelve  prisoners  for  trial  before  the  Cour  Prevotale  of 
Rodez.  Among  them  were  included  the  wives  of  Bastide 
and  Jausion,  a  sister  of  Bastide,  and  the  eldest  daughter 
of  the  Bancals.  But  the  Royal  Court  at  Montpellier 
issued  a  decree  removing  the  case  from  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  Cour  Prevotale — a  peculiar  court  of  unenviable 
reputation,  established  during  the  White  Terror  to  deal 
with  political  offences — and  ordering  a  fresh  investigation 

203 


THE  FUALDES  CASE 

preparatory  to  the  hearing  of  the  trial  by  the  ordinary 
Assize  Court  sitting  at  Rodez.  It  was  in  the  midst  of 
this  second  investigation  that  an  event  occurred  which  gave 
new  life  to  the  excitement  caused  by  the  crime,  and  shifted 
the  interest  of  the  drama  from  the  persons  of  the  principal 
criminals  to  that  of  a  woman  whose  strange  vagaries  not 
only  attracted  universal  attention,  but  prolonged  for 
nearly  a  year  the  final  settlement  of  the  case. 

Ever  since  the  details  of  Bancal's  confession  had  become 
known  to  the  public,  speculation  had  been  rife  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  veiled  lady  who  had  been  hidden  in  the 
cupboard  of  the  Bancals'  kitchen  during  the  progress  of 
Fualdes  murder.  Gossip,  as  not  infrequently  happens  in 
such  cases,  made  free  with  the  names  of  various  ladies  of 
Rodez  as  being  the  actual  victims  of  the  misadventure,  and 
even  went  so  far  as  to  name  the  man  for  whose  sake  the 
lady  had  found  herself  so  dangerously  compromised.  It,  was 
out  of  gossip  of  this  kind  that  the  truth  at  last  emerged. 
A  certain  respectable  young  girl,  Mile.  Avit,  a  daughter 
of  the  registrar  of  the  Tribunal,  had  been  designated  as 
the  veiled  lady,  and  the  name  of  a  young  gentleman 
equally  blameless  coupled  with  hers.  The  young  man 
was  complaining  to  some  friends  in  the  public  room  of  a 
hotel  of  the  gross  injustice  of  such  scandal,  when  one  of 
his  friends,  an  officer  in  the  army  named  Clemandot, 
endeavoured  to  reassure  him  by  saying,  "Never  mind, 
my  good  fellow.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  it  was  not 
Mile.  Avit."  Later  in  the  day  Clemandot  repeated  this 
statement.  The  young  man,  and  those  with  him,  insisted 
that  if  Clemandot  knew  the  real  truth  as  to  the  identity 
of  the  mysterious  lady,  it  was  his  duty  to  disclose  it,  and 
so  relieve  the  respectable  women  of  Rodez  from  the  burden 
of  a  scandalous  suspicion.  But  the  officer  was  reluctant 
to  speak  ;  to  name  a  lady  as  having  been  at  the  Bancals"" 
house,  under  any  circumstances,  was  to  blast  her  reputation. 
However,  he  gave  a  half-promise  that  he  would  do 

204 


THE  FUALDES  CASE 

something  towards  elucidating  the  mystery.  A  few  hours 
later  Clemandot  found  himself  summoned  into  the  presence 
of  the  Comte  d'Estourmel,  the  Prefect  of  the  Department. 
"  You  must  tell  me  everything,"  said  the  Prefect ;  "  you 
cannot  in  honour  keep  silence  any  longer.'"  Clemandot 
replied  by  a  statement  to  the  effect  that  Madame  Manzon, 
a  lady  of  good  family  but  easy  reputation,  well  known  in 
Rodez,  had  herself  confessed  to  him  that  it  was  she  who 
had  been  surprised  in  a  rendezvous  at  the  Bancals1  house 
by  the  assassins  of  Fualdes. 

Hitherto  the  elements  of  romance,  of  sensibility — to  use 
a  word  much  in  vogue  at  the  period — of  emotion,  have 
been  strangely  lacking  from  this  great  cause  celebre.  But 
with  the  appearance  of  Madame  Manzon  all  these  more 
feminine  qualities  are  brought  into  play,  tending  to  relieve 
the  mere  horror  of  the  crime,  and  giving  to  French 
justice  an  opportunity  of  displaying  all  those  arts  of 
pressure,  persuasion,  and  intimidation  that  it  knows  so 
well  how  to  employ  in  their  most  striking  and  sensational 
form  towards  an  unwilling  witness  or  a  prisoner  who 
obstinately  denies  his  guilt. 

Madame  Manzon  was  admirably  fitted,  both  by  nature 
and  circumstance,  to  be  the  heroine  of  a  cause  celebre. 
The  daughter  of  M.  Enjalran,  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
Tribunal  of  Rodez,  she  had  fallen  away  from  the  respect- 
able surroundings  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up, 
and  occupied  at  the  time  of  the  murder  the  rather 
equivocal  position  of  a  woman  separated  from  her  husband 
and  reputed  to  be  lively,  sentimental,  and  indulgent. 
Fortune  had  not  been  very  kind  to  her.  At  an  early  age 
she  had  been  married  to  a  man  she  did  not  love ;  she  took 
him  as  her  husband,  to  use  her  own  words,  "  as  one  takes 
a  pill.1"  And  all  the  time  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere  ; 
for  there  was  a  bright  and  lively  young  fellow,  a  "  little 
sportsman "  of  quick  wit  and  nice  appreciation,  who  had 
won  her  heart,  and  was  daily  contrasted  with  the  kindly 

205 


THE  FUALD^S   CASE 

and  well-meaning  but  insufferably  dull  and  unattractive 
husband.  After  three  months  of  married  life  M.  and 
Madame  Manzon  separated,  she  going  to  live  at  a  little 
farmhouse  in  the  country.  There  the  still  devoted 
husband  made  an  attempt  to  gain  the  affection  of  his  wife 
in  a  manner  that  for  a  time,  at  any  rate,  appealed  to  the 
"  sensibility  "  of  the  lady.  Like  some  Troubadour  of  old, 
the  excellent  gentleman  appeared  at  night  under  her 
window,  twanged  a  mandoline,  and  sent  her  mysterious 
baskets  of  flowers  which  concealed  gifts  of  various  kinds. 
The  masquerade  was  successful.  Charmed  by  the 
eccentricity  of  the  situation,  Madame  Manzon  once  more 
admitted  her  husband  to  her  chamber,  and  as  a  burlesque 
Romeo  he  obtained  what  was  denied  to  homely  affection. 
However,  the  birth  of  a  child  soon  scattered  the  factitious 
setting  of  pseudo-romance,  and  the  ill-assorted  couple 
parted  for  good. 

Madame  Manzon  returned  to  Rodez,  a  city  she  despised. 
Its  inhabitants,  to  her  thinking,  had  no  heart ;  they  were 
little  better  than  stupid  machines.  Being  in  no  temper  to 
conform  to  their  ways  of  living,  she  followed  those  of  her 
own,  and  soon  acquired,  among  those  she  despised,  a 
dubious  reputation.  If  the  story  told  by  Clemandot  were 
true,  and  she  had  really  gone  to  the  Bancals'  on  the  night 
of  March  19th  to  keep  an  assignation,  there  were  some 
grounds  for  the  rather  questionable  character  given  her 
by  the  dullards  of  Rodez.  It  was  on  July  29th  that 
Clemandot  made  his  startling  revelation.  On  the  31st,  at 
the  request  of  her  father,  the  Prefect  sent  for  Madame 
Manzon  and  questioned  her  as  to  Clemandofs  avowal. 
She  promptly  gave  him  the  lie,  but  seemed  embarrassed 
and  ill  at  ease. 

On  the  following  day  she  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Prefect 
that  betrayed  a  painful  agitation.  She  was  anxious,  she 
wrote,  to  tell  the  truth,  but  wanted  the  courage  to  do  so : 
her  situation  was  so  difficult,  she  so  lonely  in  her  distress. 

206 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

"  Have  I  not  been  born  to  misfortune  ?    Has  not  the  cup 
of  my  unhappiness  been  filled  to  the  brim  ? "    She  came  to 
the  Prefect's  house  and  there  declared  that  it  was  true  that 
she  had  told  Clemandot  that  she  had  been  at  the  Bancals' 
on  the  night  of  the  murder,  but  that  it  was  a  joke  on  her 
part ;  she  had  never  been  there  in  her  life.     The  Prefect 
confronted   her    with    Clemandot ;    her   father,    who    was 
present,  commanded  her  to  speak  the  truth  :     "  Enough  of 
lies,  madame ;  if  you  wish  to  avoid  the  full  current  of  my 
wrath,  speak  the  truth.     If  you  have  forgotten  all  other 
obligations,  at  least  respect  that  one."     The  Prefect  sent 
everybody  from  the  room,  and  once  again  pressed  her,  in  a 
kindly  manner,  to  be  frank  with  him.     At  length  Madame 
Manzon   showed  signs   of  wavering;    if  she  spoke,  would 
her  father   promise  not  to  separate  her  from  her  child, 
and   guarantee   her   an    income   sufficient   to   live  upon  ? 
M.  Enjalran,  called  into  the  room,  promised  to  accede  to 
her  wishes.     She  then  confessed,  for  the  first  time,  that  she 
had  been  in  the  Bancals1  kitchen  on  the  night  of  March  19th, 
but  said  she  could  not  identify  any  of  the  persons  she  had 
seen  there.     To  improve  the  occasion,  and  profit  by  her 
coming-on    disposition,    the    Prefect     straightway     took 
Madame  Manzon  to  the  scene  of  the  murder.     She  had  no 
sooner  entered  the  passage  leading  to  the  kitchen  than  she 
turned  pale,  beat  her  hands  together,  and  fainted  away. 
In  the  kitchen  itself  and  the  courtyard  her  agitation  was 
no   less    marked ;   she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go.     She 
identified  the  cupboard  in  which  she  had  hidden,  and,  as 
the  recollection  of  that  awful  night  came  more  forcibly 
upon  her,  her  terror  showed  only  too  clearly  the  nature  of 
the  scene  she  had  witnessed.     Feeling  that  he  had  suffi- 
ciently harrowed  her  feelings  for  one  day,  the  Prefect  sent 
Madame  Manzon  to  her  home. 

The  following  day,  August  2nd,  as  a  result  of  the 
Prefect's  judicious  measures,  Madame  Manzon  made  a 
formal  declaration.  In  it  she  stated  that  she  had  gone 

207 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

into  the  Bancals1  house  on  the  night  of  the  murder  in 
order  to  avoid  a  crowd  in  the  street.  She  described  how 
she  had  hidden  in  the  cupboard,  how  a  man  had  dragged 
her  out  and  threatened  her  with  death  if  she  spoke  of  what 
she  had  seen  ;  and  she  gave  the  substance  of  half  an  hour's 
conversation  she  had  had  in  the  street  with  the  man  who 
led  her  from  the  house.  But  she  could  identify  no  one  ;  she 
admitted  that  she  had  been  dressed  as  a  man  on  the  occasion 
in  question,  and  that  she  had  burnt  the  clothes  because 
they  were  blood-stained.  The  Prefect  suggested  to  her 
that  the  blood  was  the  blood  of  the  murdered  man,  that 
she  had  accidentally  come  into  contact  with  the  corpse  on 
the  table ;  but  she  attributed  it  to  quite  another  cause : 
she  had  knocked  her  head  while  she  was  in  the  cupboard, 
and  the  blow  had  made  her  nose  bleed.  This  statement  of 
Madame  Manzon  was  clearly  of  a  very  partial  character ; 
she  had  not  told  all ;  but  the  Prefect  had  every  hope  that, 
since  she  had  gone  so  far  in  the  path  of  revelation,  he 
would  ultimately  succeed  in  getting  from  her  a  full  and 
particular  account  of  her  nocturnal  adventure.  But  he 
was  doomed  to  disappointment.  Not  only  was  there  no 
more  information  to  De  obtained  from  the  lady,  but  on  the 
very  day  following  her  confession  she  retracted  it,  denied 
that  she  had  ever  been  at  the  Bancals1,  and  went  back  to 
her  previous  story  that  it  was  merely  as  a  joke  she  had 
told  Clemandot  that  she  had  been  there. 

On  August  4th  this  astounding  retraction  was  solemnly 
repeated  in  the  presence  of  the  Prefect,  her  father,  and  the 
Procureur  du  Roi.  "  In  the  very  sanctuary  of  justice,  in 
the  presence  of  its  honourable  ministers,  in  the  presence  of 
God  who  hears  me  and  shall  judge,11  Madame  Manzon 
declared  that  never,  at  any  time,  had  she  been  in  the 
Bancals1  house ;  that  she  had  not  even  known  that  such  a 
house  existed,  and  that  she  was  fully  prepared  to  maintain 
the  truth  of  this  statement  to  the  end  of  her  days.  "  You 
have  sorely  tried  our  patience  and  our  trust  in  you,11  was 

208 


THE   FUALDES  CASE 

the  cold  comment  of  the  Prefect.  But  he  was  only  at  the 
beginning  of  his  trials ;  he  had  yet  to  learn  what  it  was  to 
get  the  truth  out  of  a  woman  of  sensibility.  In  the  mean- 
time it  was  clear  that  some  powerful  cause  must  have 
operated  to  induce  Madame  Manzon  to  go  back  with  such 
resolute  determination  on  what  was  evidently  the  true 
account  of  her  visit  to  the  Bancals\  That  cause  was 
intimidation.  Since  her  first  interview  with  the  Prefect 
she  had  been  visited  by  Madame  Pons,  a  sister  of  Bastide, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  object  of  that  visit  had 
been  to  put  such  pressure  on  Madame  Manzon,  such  fear 
into  her  heart,  as  should  compel  her,  for  her  own  safety's 
sake,  to  do  her  utmost  to  save  the  heads  of  Bastide  and 
Jausion.  Already  intimidation  had  been  practised  in 
Rodez  by  members  of  these  two  influential  families,  and  it 
was  not  likely  that  a  weak  and  vain  woman,  capable  of 
giving  fatal  testimony,  would  escape  their  efforts.  The 
authorities,  too,  had  played  into  their  hands.  At  the  first 
sign  of  wavering  they  should  have  placed  Madame  Manzon 
under  arrest,  chargeol  her  with  having  been  an  accomplice 
in  the  crime,  and  so  secured  her  against  the  threats  and 
inducements  of  the  relatives  of  the  prisoners.  But  the 
favour  she  enjoyed  as  the  daughter  of  a  respected 
magistrate,  the  consideration  shown  to  her  by  the  Prefect, 
the  freedom  allowed  her  up  to  the  time  of  the  trial, 
exposed  her  to  the  influence  of  Madame  Pons,  left  her  free 
to  the  indulgence  of  the  emotional  element  in  her  com- 
position, and  gave  her  an  opportunity  of  tasting  the 
sweets  of  notoriety.  Terror  of  the  vengeance  threatened 
by  the  relatives  of  Bastide,  a  feeling  of  gratitude  towards 
Jausion,  who  had  undoubtedly  saved  her  life  on  the  fatal 
night,  shame  at  having  to  admit  her  presence  in  a  house  of 
ill  repute,  the  attraction  of  finding  herself  the  centre  of  a 
highly  dramatic  and  poignant  situation — all  these  motives 
unitecl  in  the  troubled  breast  of  Madame  Manzon  to  make 
perjury  almost  a  necessity. 

209  f 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

But,  having  made  up  her  mind  to  lie,  Madame  Manzon 
was  neither  robust  nor  wicked  enough  to  emulate  worthily 
the  achievements  of  an  Gates  or  a  Bedloe.  Her  tortured 
conscience  betrayed  itself  in  a  series  of  letters  with  which, 
during  the  fortnight  previous  to  the  trial  of  the  case,  she 
bombarded  the  too  amiable  Prefect.  In  these  letters,  and 
in  the  interviews  to  which  they  led,  she  acknowledged 
that  she  had  a  secret,  and  promised  to  one  day  divulge  it ; 
at  times  she  seemed  to  hover  on  the  brink  of  yet  another 
confession,  but  only  to  draw  back  and  take  refuge  in 
vague  hints,  entreaties,  fantastic  tales.  She  was  a  poor 
weak  woman,  she  wrote,  no  Machiavelli ;  she  was  on  the 
edge  of  a  precipice ;  the  whole  world  was  against  her, 
a  world  that  knew  nothing  of  her  true  character  ;  her 
nights  were  horrible  ;  her  child,  that  slept  peacefully  by 
her  side,  would  soon  be  taken  from  her ;  and  so  on,  in  a 
confused  medley  of  conflicting  emotions.  All  this  time, 
and  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Prefect,  she  was  receiving 
visits  from  Madame  Pons  and  others  interested  in  the 
fate  of  Bastide  and  Jausion.  It  was  not  likely,  therefore, 
that,  exposed  to  these  sinister  influences,  Madame  Manzon 
would  escape  from  the  web  of  falsehood  in  which  she  had 
involved  herself.  The  magistrates,  victims  of  their  own 
mistaken  indulgence,  had  now  to  trust  to  the  gravity  and 
authority  of  the  Assize  Court  to  fix  Madame  "  Mensonge," 
as  she  was  playfully  termed,  to  the  truth. 

On  August  18th,  1817,  eleven  prisoners  stood  in  the 
dock  before  the  Assize  Court  of  Rodez,  charged  with 
being  concerned  in  various  degrees  in  the  murder  of 
M.  Fualdes.  These  were  Bastide  and  Jausion,  Bastide's 
two  sisters,  Madame  Jausion  and  Madame  Galtier,  the 
woman  Bancal  and  her  eldest  daughter,  Marianne,  Colard 
and  his  mistress,  Anne  Benoit,  Bach,  Bousquier  and 
Missonier.  Of  the  two  principal  actors  in  the  crime, 
Jausion,  as  he  entered  the  court,  seemed  restless  and 
depressed,  but  Bastide  bore  himself  with  hardy  insolence. 

210 


THE  FUALD£S  CASE 

The  leading  advocate  for  the  defence  was  M.  Romiguieres, 
a  distinguished  representative  of  the  bar  of  Toulouse. 
The  son  of  Fualdes  was  present  in  his  capacity  of  "  partie 
civile,"  not  in  this  instance  to  claim  any  pecuniary  com- 
pensation for  the  loss  of  his  father,  but  to  import  into 
the  proceedings  an  inconvenient,  if  comprehensible, 
element  of  personal  vindictiveness  that  could  be  of  little 
assistance  to  justice.  The  jury  had  been  carefully  chosen 
from  among  men  holding  prominent  positions  in  and 
about  Rodez. 

In  describing  a  case  the  hearing  of  which  lasted  nearly 
a  month  and  in  which  three  hundred  and  twenty  witnesses 
were  examined,  it  is  necessary  to  select  those  points  that 
are  new  and  of  salient  interest,  and  avoid  such  evidence  as 
merely  repeats  the  story  that  has  been  already  told. 

The  great  body  of  the  evidence,  as  it  affected  Bastide 
and  Jausion,  added  little  to  the  ample  details  given  in 
Bancal's  informal  confession.  The  prisoner  Bousquier 
fully  admitted  his  share  in  the  business,  told  of  his  horror 
when  he  discovered  the  real  character  of  the  bale  of 
tobacco  that  he  had  been  hired  to  carry,  and  identified 
Bastide  as  one  of  those  present,  but  was  less  positive  as 
to  Jausion.  Many  witnesses  deposed  to  the  involuntary 
admissions  made  by  the  two  little  children  of  the  Bancals1 ; 
many  also  deposed  to  the  intimidation  exercised  in  Rodez 
by  the  friends  of  the  prisoners  towards  those  capable  of 
giving  evidence  against  them ;  two  daring  attempts  made 
previous  to  the  trial  to  effect  the  escape  of  Bastide  and 
Jausion  by  corrupting  their  gaolers,  bore  plain  testimony 
to  the  determined  and  daring  efforts  of  their  families  to 
cheat  justice  of  her  prey.  The  comings  and  goings  of  the 
two  men  before  and  after  the  murder,  their  financial 
relations  with  the  murdered  man,  the  admissions  made  by 
the  woman  Bancal  to  some  fellow  prisoners ;  all  these 
circumstances  told  heavily  against  the  innocence  of  the 
majority  of  the  prisoners.  One  of  those  trivial  pieces  of 

211 


THE  FUALD£S  CASE 

evidence  that  astonish  the  English  reader  at  their  finding 
a  place  in  a  grave  judicial  investigation,  provoked  a  sneer 
from  the  redoubtable  Bastide.  A  Professor  was  called 
who  had  met  Bastide  about  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon 
preceding  the  crime.  His  appearance  was  so  distraught 
that  the  Professor  could  not  help  exclaiming  to  a  friend 
who  was  with  him,  "That  man  looks  a  villain  !  "  "But 
he's  a  man  of  very  good  family,""  expostulated  the  friend. 
"  Never  mind  that,"  replied  the  Professor,  "  he's  got  an 
evil  face.""  "  Permit  me  to  congratulate  the  department," 
sneered  Bastide  at  the  conclusion  of  this  remarkable 
evidence,  "  on  being  able  to  reckon  among  its  professors 
so  striking  a  physiognomist." 

It  was  not  until  the  fifth  day  of  the  trial  that  public 
expectation  was  gratified  by  the  appearance  of  Madame 
Manzon  in  the  witness-box.  This  event  was  the  signal 
for  a  display  of  emotion  and  excitement  on  the  part  of 
all  concerned,  rarely,  if  ever,  equalled  in  the  records  of  the 
French  Assize  Courts.  The  President  greeted  the  witness 
as  "  an  angel  sent  by  Providence  to  clear  up  a  dreadful 
mystery."  But  when  he  invited  Madame  Manzon  to  fulfil 
this  august  mission,  she  fainted  away  and  had  to  be  carried 
from  the  court.  On  her  return,  to  the  disappointment  of 
of  the  judge,  she  denied  that  she  had  ever  been  in  the 
house  of  the  Bancals,  but  said  that  she  had  heard  that 
there  had  been  a  woman  there  on  the  night  of  the  murder 
whom  Bastide  had  wished  to  kill  but  Jausion  had  preserved 
from  death.  The  utmost  efforts  of  the  President,  and  of  the 
young  Fualdes,  could  wring  nothing  more  from  her.  In 
vain  the  former  exhorted  her,  as  the  daughter  of  a 
magistrate,  to  speak  the  truth  ;  her  only  answer  was  to 
faint  away  a  second  time.  In  vain  was  a  row  of  soldiers 
placed  between  her  and  the  prisoners,  to  protect  her  from 
intimidation  ;  in  vain  was  she  confronted  with  her  lover, 
Clemandot,  and  other  witnesses  to  whom  she  had  spoken 
at  different  times  of  her  unlucky  adventure  in  the  Bancals' 

212 


THE   FUALDES   CASE 

house.  Madame  Manzon,  though  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
address  the  prisoners  as  assassins,  persisted  in  denying 
that  she  had  any  knowledge  of  the  murder  except  such  as 
she  had  learnt  from  hearsay,  or  the  many  anonymous 
letters  with  which  she  had  been  deluged ;  whatever  she 
may  have  said  before  was  false ;  she  was  now  speaking  the 
truth.  No  one  believed  her ;  but  all  arts  were  powerless 
to  shake  her  resolution  to  lie.  The  gallant  Clemandot 
felt  that  her  denials  reflected  so  seriously  on  his  character, 
that  he  twice  offered  to  explain  to  the  court  the  exact 
nature  of  his  relations  with  Madame  Manzon  ;  this,  he 
declared,  would  place  the  truth  of  his  statements  beyond 
question  ;  but  the  President,  to  the  intense  disappointment 
of  the  audience,  declined  to  receive  the  information. 
M.  Romiguieres,  in  defending  Bastide,  made  a  daring 
appeal  to  her  to  speak  the  whole  truth.  "The  contra- 
dictions, inconsistencies,  half  admissions  in  your  evidence, 
your  obvious  terror,  tell  far  more  heavily  against  the 
prisoners  than  any  definite  accusation.  It  would  be  far 
better  for  all  that  you  should  speak  the  whole  truth. 
What  is  there  to  prevent  you  ?  I  ask  you,  in  the  name 
of  the  prisoners,  what  have  you  to  fear  from  them  ?  They 

are  in  the  dock "     "  No  !  no  !  "  cried  Madame  Manzon, 

"  they  are  not  all  in  the  dock  ;  there  are  others !  " 

At  this  startling  announcement  the  general  excitement 
reached  fever  heat ;  the  formidable  Bastide,  the  only  one 
of  the  prisoners  who  in  any  degree  dominated  the  pro- 
ceedings, became  so  terrible  and  threatening  that  the 
officer  commanding  the  soldiers  guarding  the  precincts  of 
the  court  ordered  his  men  to  present  arms. 

The  following  day  the  President  made  a  last  attempt  to 
persuade  Madame  Manzon  to  recant.  He  felt,  no  doubt, 
that  he  had  been  premature,  if  not  presumptuous,  in 
greeting  her  in  the  first  instance  as  a  heaven-sent  angel 
of  truth.  He  apologised  for  his  ill-judged  enthusiasm  by 
explaining  that  though  God  had  given  to  men  all  they 

213 


THE  FUALD^S  CASE 

required  to  make  them  happy,  He  had  denied  them  the 
power  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  eternity  :  "  I  don't  think 
anybody  can  imagine  for  one  moment  that  I  sought  to 
lift  the  impenetrable  veil  that  wisely  shrouds  from  us  the 
mysterious  designs  of  Providence."  He  then  exhorted 
Madame  Manzon,  in  the  name  of  her  parents,  to  tell  the 
truth.  Her  only  answer  was  to  try  to  shift  the  responsi- 
bility for  her  original  statements  on  to  a  young  lady 
named  Pierret,  from  whom  she  said  she  had  learnt  the 
details  of  the  murder.  The  young  lady  was  called  and 
denied  emphatically  that  she  had  ever  had  any  conversation 
of  any  kind  with  Madame  Manzon  on  the  subject  of  the 
crime.  The  President,  his  patience  exhausted,  began  to 
threaten.  "  Remember,""  he  said,  addressing  Madame 
Manzon,  "  you  are  a  witness  now  ;  you  may  be  a  prisoner 
later.""  "  I  know  that,""  she  replied ;  "  you  can  arrest  me 
if  you  like.  But  I  was  never  at  the  Bancals1,  and  I  am 
ready  to  suffer  for  the  woman  who  was."  At  this  point 
the  young  Fualdes  rose,  and  told  the  President  that  he 
had  that  moment  been  informed  that  the  woman  Bancal 
was  ready  to  aver  that  it  was  indeed  Madame  Manzon  who 
had  been  discovered  in  her  closet  by  the  murderers.  The 
gendarme,  sitting  by  her  side  in  the  dock,  told  the  court 
that,  while  Madame  Manzon  was  giving  her  evidence,  he 
had  heard  the  prisoner  Bancal  mutter,  "  She  may  say 
what  she  likes,  she  was  there."  But  Bancal  declined  to 
be  drawn  into  any  definite  admissions. 

The  attempt  to  make  Madame  Manzon  tell  her  real 
story  had  failed  egregiously.  The  intimidation  practised 
by  the  relatives  of  Bastide,  her  gratitude  to  Jausion,  the 
reluctance  to  avow  her  own  indiscretion,  and  the  indulgence 
hitherto  extended  to  her  by  the  authorities,  had  all  con- 
tributed to  the  suppression  of  the  truth.  A  rigorous 
cross-examination  after  the  English  fashion,  a  sterner  and 
less  sentimental  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  presiding 
judge,  might  have  swayed  her  resolution  ;  but  her  treat- 


THE  FUALDF.S  CASE 

ment  at  the  trial  was  not  of  a  character  to  do  that.  If 
she  had  been  arrested  before  instead  of  after  the  trial  the 
result  might  have  been  different. 

In  any  case  her  reticence  did  not  avail  those  chiefly 
concerned.  On  September  12th  the  jury  returned  a  verdict 
of  "  Guilty "  in  varying  degree  against  all  the  prisoners 
with  the  exception  of  Bastide's  two  sisters,  Madame  Galtier 
and  Madame  Jausion,  and  Marianne  Bancal.  Bastide, 
Jausion,  Bach,  Colard,  and  the  woman  Bancal  were  sen- 
tenced to  death,  Missonier  and  Annie  Benoit  to  imprison- 
ment for  life,  and  Bousquier  to  one  year's  imprisonment 
and  a  trifling  fine.  Jausion  was  crushed  by  the  weight  of 
his  condemnation  ;  but  the  redoubtable  Bastide  rose  to  the 
occasion.  "  There  are  hearts  in  this  court,"  he  said,  "  that 
are  beating  quicker  than  mine."  The  woman  Benoit, 
Colard's  mistress,  paid  no  attention  to  her  own  sentence, 
but  reproached  herself  with  having  brought  about  her 
lover's  fate  by  persuading  him  to  stay  in  Rodez. 

But  they  were  not  to  die  yet.  Whether  from  careless- 
ness or  over-excitement,  the  President  at  Rodez  had 
committed  so  many  irregularities  in  the  conduct  of  the 
trial,  chiefly  in  the  swearing  of  the  witnesses,  which  in 
France,  as  in  Scotland,  is  entrusted  to  the  presiding  judge, 
that  in  October  the  Court  of  Cassation  quashed  the  whole 
proceedings  and  directed  a  new  trial  before  the  Assize 
Court  for  the  Tarn  department,  sitting  at  Albi.  In  the 
meantime  Madame  Manzon  had  been  arrested  on  a  charge 
of  perjury  and  imprisoned  in  a  convent. 

Her  confinement  was,  however,  of  the  most  indulgent 
character.  She  was  allowed  to  receive  as  many  visitors  as 
she  pleased ;  nor  was  she  separated  from  her  little  boy, 
whom  she  described  as  "  her  little  palladium,  her  Allan, 
her  idol."  She  was  now  to  taste  to  the  full  the  sweets  of 
notoriety.  An  enterprising  and  unscrupulous  Parisian 
journalist,  by  name  de  la  Touche,  scented  lucrative 
"  copy "  in  the  imprisoned  heroine  of  a  cause  cetebre ;  he 

215 


THE  FUALD&S  CASE 

visited  her  in  her  convent  prison  and  for  2,400  francs  pur- 
chased the  right  to  publish  a  volume  of  Memoirs  setting 
forth  the  story  of  her  married  life  and  her  connection  with 
Fualdes.  It  was  a  good  bargain,  for  out  of  the  sale  of  the 
book  de  la  Touche  was  enabled  to  buy  himself  a  charming 
villa  in  the  country.  Paris  had  become  interested  in  the 
strange  stories  that  reached  the  capital  from  Rodez,  in  the 
sentimental  lady  so  mysteriously  involved  in  a  brutal  and 
sordid  crime,  in  her  extraordinary  attitude,  her  constant 
admissions  and  retractions. 

In  her  Memoirs  Madame  Manzon  continued  to  deny  her 
presence  in  the  Bancals'  kitchen  on  the  night  of  the 
murder,  and  to  insist  that  it  was  from  Rose  Pierret  that 
she  had  learned  all  she  knew  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  crime.  But  in  her  narrative  of  her  married  life,  and 
her  relations  with  Clemandot,  she  broke  new  ground,  and 
amused  the  curious  public.  We  have  already  alluded 
to  her  account  of  her  unhappy  marriage  with  the  un- 
sympathetic Manzon,  the  worthy  citizen  of  Boeotian  Rodez, 
a  city  filled  not  with  men,  but  with  automata  and 
machines.  She  dealt  in  these  Memoirs  no  less  severely 
with  Clemandot,  whose  indiscretion  had  first  revealed  her 
awkward  secret.  He  was  a  young  fool  who  had  bored  her 
by  his  persistent  attentions ;  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  calling  at  her  house  slightly  intoxicated,  and  sitting 
there  till  she  was  at  her  wit's  end  how  to  get  rid  of  him  ; 
and  it  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that,  to  pass  the  time 
and  evade  his  silly  questions,  she  had  pretended,  as  a  joke, 
to  have  been  the  woman,  the  unwilling  witness  of  Fualdes' 
murder. 

The  gallantry  of  Clemandot  was  not  proof  against  this 
most  uncomplimentary  account  of  his  relations  with 
Madame  Manzon  ;  he  could  not  refrain  from  a  reply.  He 
had  already  been  threatened  with  the  loss  of  his  commission 
and  a  duel  with  one  of  Madame  Manzon's  brothers,  and 
had  not  been  allowed  to  tell  all  his  story  in  the  Assize 

216 


THE   FUALD&S  CASE 

Court.  Since  memoirs  were  in  the  air,  there  was  nothing 
left  him  but  to  publish  his  own.  According  to  his  story, 
he  had  known  Madame  Manzon  for  three  days  when,  on 
July  28th,  she,  after  some  beating  about  the  bush,  told 
him  that  on  the  night  of  the  murder  she  had  gone  to  the 
Bancals1  house  to  meet  "  a  young  man  from  the  country ," 
and  had  been  surprised  there  by  the  assassins  of  Fualdes. 
As  to  his  brief  relations  with  Madame  Manzon,  Clemandot 
declared  them  to  have  been  perfectly  innocent ;  he  would 
have  said  so  at  the  trial,  and  so  put  an  end  to  all  un- 
charitable surmise,  had  he  been  permitted.  The  reason 
why  Madame  Manzon  had  endeavoured  to  involve  Rose 
Pierret  in  her  adventure  was,  Clemandot  suggested,  the 
girl's  prettiness,  an  unforgivable  crime  in  another  woman 
in  the  eyes  of  Madame  Manzon.  But  the  cruellest  cut  of 
all  was  contained  in  the  following  passage  from  these 
Memoirs :  "  I  was  first  attracted  to  Madame  Manzon  by 
her  plainness.  I  was  told  she  was  bright  and  amusing, 
and,  though  it  required  an  effort  to  get  over  her  yellow 
skin,  her  small  eyes,  large  mouth  and  masculine  voice,  I 
gradually  came  to  find  her  tolerable.  I  enjoyed  her  con- 
versation ;  we  talked  together,  and  there,  thank  God,  it 
ended." 

Clemandot's  retort  is  unchivalrous,  but  to  have  been 
described  publicly  as  a  tedious  bore  who  lolls  about  in 
a  lady's  drawing-room  in  a  state  of  somnolent  inebriety 
was,  even  if  it  were  true,  provoking. 

As  the  time  of  the  second  trial  drew  nearer,  memoirs 
fell  thick  and  fast ;  witnesses  wrote  memoirs  ;  Madame 
Manzon  wrote  additional  Memoirs,  reflecting  on  her  first, 
which  she  said  had  been  wheedled  out  of  her  by  un- 
scrupulous arts.  De  la  Touche  replied  by  revealing  a 
number  of  scandalous  details  which  he  had  suppressed  in 
the  original  Memoirs  out  of  consideration  for  their  author. 
In  the  meantime  Madame  Manzon  continued  to  be  treated 
with  every  possible  consideration  ;  she  wrote  letters  to  the 

217 


THE  FUALD&S  CASE 

newspapers  and  received  her  visitors ;  her  arrival  at  Albi 
partook  more  of  the  nature  of  a  triumphal  entry  than  that 
of  a  prisoner  awaiting  trial.  At  Albi  the  prosecution  had 
decided  to  place  her  in  the  dock  by  the  side  of  the  other 
prisoners,  charged  with  having  "  aided  and  abetted  the 
authors  of  the  crime  either  before  or  after  the  fact.11  It 
was  hoped  that,  by  placing  her  in  this  unpleasant  situation, 
she  might  be  induced  to  speak  the  truth.  The  proceed- 
ings before  the  Albi  Assize  Court,  which  opened  on  March 
25th,  1818,  were  far  more  decisive  in  their  character  than 
those  at  Rodez.  Tongues  that  had  been  previously  tied, 
from  a  variety  of  causes,  were  now  loosed.  Many  who  had 
been  afraid  to  speak  at  the  first  trial  for  fear  lest  certain 
of  the  accused,  if  acquitted,  might  wreak  vengeance  on 
them,  now  that  the  dreaded  ones  had  been  once  convicted, 
plucked  up  courage  to  come  forward.  One  of  the  prisoners, 
condemned  to  death  at  Rodez,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  with 
an  easier  fate  at  Albi,  had  made  a  partial  confession.  The 
trial  itself  was  conducted  with  greater  firmness  and  decision 
than  that  of  the  year  before,  with  on  the  whole  satisfactory 
results. 

No  evidence  that  could  tell  against  the  prisoners  was 
deemed  too  indirect,  or,  strictly  speaking,  irrelevant,  to  be 
urged  against  them.  A  witness  stated  that  a  woman  with 
whom  Bastide  lodged  had  replied  to  him  very  evasively 
when  he  asked  her  whether  Bastide  was  at  her  house  on 
the  night  of  March  19th,  1817.  Bastide,  in  reply,  said 
that  this  woman  had  died,  but,  in  dying,  had  made  a 
declaration  which  he  wished  to  have  read.  "  Yes,"  said 
the  President,  "  I  know  very  well  she  is  dead,  and  that 
her  death  followed  on  an  attack  of  violent  sickness. "  A 
young  advocate,  not  engaged  in  the  case,  rose  and  pro- 
tested against  the  absurd  rumours  circulated  about  this 
woman\s  death.  "  I  have  official  information  on  the 
subject,"  answered  the  judge. 

As  the  court  did  not  think  it  right  that  the  little  girl, 


THE   FUALDES  CASE 

Magdeleine  Bancal,  should  be  called  to  give  evidence 
against  her  mother,  a  gentleman  named  de  Lorme,  occupy- 
ing no  official  position,  was  allowed  to  give  the  substance 
of  a  statement  made  by  the  child  to  himself  and  five  other 
persons  in  the  hospital  to  which  she  had  been  removed. 
According  to  this,  Jausion  dealt  Fualdes  the  first  blow, 
but  recoiled  in  horror,  whereupon  Bastide  and  Missonier 
finished  him  off.  Madame  Manzon,  after  her  discovery  in 
the  closet,  had  been  compelled  to  place  her  hand  on  the 
belly  of  the  corpse.  The  following  morning  her  mother 
sent  the  little  girl  to  her  father,  who  was  working  in  the 
fields.  She  was  to  take  him  his  dinner  and  tell  her  father, 
so  her  mother  enjoined  her,  "  to  do  he  knew  what."  The 
child  found  Bancal  digging  a  hole  ;  she  was  frightened, 
believing,  after  the  events  of  the  previous  night,  that  it 
was  intended  for  her  ;  but  her  father  soon  reassured  her. 
Sobbing,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  said,  "  No.  Promise 
me  always  to  be  a  good  girl,  and  run  away ! "  The  hole 
he  had  dug  was  afterwards  used  for  the  interment  of  the 
two  pigs  which,  having  been  given  the  blood  of  Fualdes  to 
drink,  had  perished  from  the  horrid  draught. 

A  witness  named  Garribal  repeated  what  he  had  heard 
from  a  female  servant  of  Jausion  the  day  after  the  murder. 
The  woman  said  that,  on  the  morning  of  the  20th,  Jausion 
had  come  into  his  wife's  room  and  said,  "  Victoire,  we  are 
lost ;  he  floats  !  "  Another  witness  deposed  to  a  remark 
made  by  Bastide  on  the  same  day.  A  few  years  before  the 
murder  of  Fualdes,  Bastide's  eldest  son  had  been  killed  in 
the  course  of  a  brawl ;  Fualdes,  then  Procureur  Imperial, 
had  prosecuted  his  assailants,  but,  in  the  opinion  of  his 
father,  without  sufficient  zeal.  Bastide,  who  had  not 
forgotten  nor  forgiven  this,  said  to  the  witness  on  one 
occasion,  "  I  have  plenty  of  children,  but  none  of  them 
can  work.  If  my  eldest  son  were  alive,  he  would  have 
helped  me.  The  judges  were  very  unwilling  to  punish 
his  murderer;  I'll  pay  them  out." 


THE   FUALDES  CASE 

The  evidence  of  a  man  named  Theron  was  more  con- 
clusive in  its  character.  He  swore  positively  to  having 
seen,  from  behind  a  bush,  Bastide,  Jausion,  Bach,  Colard, 
and  Bancal,  carrying  the  corpse  of  a  man  in  the  direction 
of  the  Aveyron  river  on  the  night  of  March  19th  ;  he  was 
positive  in  his  identification  of  the  prisoners.  Asked  by 
the  President  why  he  had  not  given  his  evidence  at  Rodez, 
he  answered :  "  Bastide,  when  first  arrested,  had  been  re- 
leased for  a  while  ;  I  was  afraid  he  might  get  out  of  prison 
again  and  serve  me  as  he  had  served  M.  Fualdes.  But  I 
told  M.  Anglade,  the  doctor,  at  the  time  that  '  my  best 
friend '  knew  all  about  the  murder,  and  as  I  meant  myself 
by  my  '  best  friend,'  I  thought  he  might  guess  that  it 
was  I  who  knew  all  about  it." 

By  placing  Madame  Manzon  in  the  dock  the  prosecution 
attained  their  end,  in  a  measure.  She  now  admitted  her 
presence  in  the  Bancals1  kitchen.  From  her  concealment 
she  had  heard  cries  and  moans  and  the  noise  of  the  blood 
running  into  the  bucket ;  she  had  tried  in  vain  to  get  out 
by  the  little  window  of  the  closet,  but  had  only  succeeded 
in  making  her  nose  bleed.  When  she  was  brought  out, 
her  terror  was  so  great  that  she  had  no  recollection  of 
what  or  whom  she  had  seen  ;  she  only  remembered  being 
taken  into  the  street  by  a  man  whom  she  was  unable  to 
identify,  and  there  sent  about  her  business.  More  than 
this  she  could  not,  or  would  not  say  ;  she  was  utterly 
unable,  she  said,  to  identify  any  of  her  companions  in  the 
dock  as  having  been  present  in  the  kitchen  on  that  awful 
night.  And  it  would  have  been  well  for  at  least  one  of 
them  had  she  been  left  alone  at  that  point  in  her  story. 
A  gentleman  had  been  called  who  swore  that  Madame 
Manzon  had  told  him,  before  the  first  trial,  that  she  had 
given  evidence  to  the  authorities  that  would  send  those 
accused  of  the  murder  to  the  scaffold.  Judge,  advocates, 
the  witness  himself,  pressed  her  to  admit  the  truth  of  this 
statement,  but  in  vain  ;  at  length  Bastide  himself  inter~ 

220 


THE   FUALDF.S  CASE 

vened.  "  If  she  would  only  tell  the  truth  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
Madame  Manzon  turned  on  him,  and,  with  a  strangely 
significant  look,  apostrophised  him  as  "  Wretch  ! "  "  Come, 
no  more  monosyllables,  madame ! "  replied  Bastide ;  but 
the  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when  Madame, 
pushing  aside  the  two  gendarmes  who  interposed  between 
them,  confronted  her  fellow-prisoner.  "  Look  well  at  me, 
Bastide,"  she  cried ;  "  don't  you  know  me  again  ?  "  "  No,1' 
was  the  answer,  "  I  don't  know  you."  "  Wretch,  you  say 
you  don't  know  me,  you  who  would  have  cut  my  throat !  " 
and  Madame  Manzon  fell  fainting  in  the  dock.  For  the 
redoubtable  Bastide  this  was  a  fatal  blow.  From  the  first 
Madame  Manzon  had  betrayed  a  marked  antipathy  to  the 
man  who  had,  according  to  her  original  story,  proposed 
to  add  her  murder  to  that  of  Fualdes.  This  significant 
incident  left  little  doubt  of  the  truth  of  that  story. 

No  sooner  had  she  recovered  from  the  agitation  into 
which  she  had  been  thrown  by  her  passage  with  Bastide, 
than  the  young  Fualdes  strove  with  all  his  might  to 
persuade  her  to  identify  Jausion  as  the  man  who  had 
combated  Bastide's  bloodthirsty  suggestion,  but  without 
result.  The  following  day  the  President  renewed  the 
attack,  but  with  little  better  success;  the  utmost  that 
could  be  wrung  from  Madame  Manzon  was  the  statement, 
"  I  can  neither  save  nor  convict  Jausion."  Bastide  made 
a  final  effort  to  discount  the  weight  of  her  damning 
testimony  against  himself.  "  These  exclamations  are  worth 
nothing,"  he  protested,  "  we  are  not  in  a  theatre. 
Madame  Manzon  has  been  entertaining  the  public  too 
long.  What  is  the  meaning  of  these  dramatic  outbursts  ?  " 
"  Stop,  prisoner,"  said  the  President,  "  why  do  you  call 
the  dock  in  which  you  are  seated  a  theatre  ?  If  it  be  true 
that  you  wanted  to  murder  Madame  Manzon,  can  you 
expect  she  should  speak  of  it  with  perfect  self-command  ? 
Don't  deceive  yourself,  Bastide;  this  is  no  comedy." 
"  My  God,  no  ! "  he  answered.  "  I  should  think  not ! 

221 


THE   FUALD^S  CASE 

It's  a  cruel  tragedy  for  a  man  whose  conscience  is  as  clear 
as  mine  !  "  "  Your  conscience  clear !  "  exclaimed  Madame 
Manzon,  with  energy.  "  If  M.  Bastide  can  prove  his 
innocence,  I  will  mount  the  scaffold  in  his  stead  !  "  It 
was  useless  for  Bastide  to  urge  that  the  woman  had  said 
one  thing  at  Rodez,  another  at  Albi.  "  I  lied  at  Rodez," 
was  the  calm  retort,  "  I  am  telling  the  truth  at  Albi." 

But  nothing  could  induce  Madame  Manzon  to  swear 
away  the  life  of  Jausion,  the  man  who  had  saved  her  own. 
One  of  the  judges  pointed  out  to  her  how  much  better  it 
would  be  for  Jausion  if  she  would  only  speak  out,  but  she 
was  resolute.  "  I  cannot  speak  conclusively,"  she  answered, 
"  in  respect  to  him." 

But  her  reticence  was  powerless  to  save  Jausion  from 
his  fate.  Not  only  had  the  evidence  of  Theron  added 
very  materially  to  the  weight  of  the  testimony  against 
him,  but  the  confessions  made  by  Bach  and  the  woman 
Bancal  in  the  course  of  the  trial,  which  fully  corroborated 
the  informal  but  seemingly  trustworthy  statement  made 
by  the  latter's  husband  on  his  death-bed,  furnished  con- 
clusive evidence  of  his  presence  and  active  participation 
in  his  kinsman's  murder.  According  to  these  confessions, 
there  had  been  at  least  two  other  persons  present  at  the 
murder  in  addition  to  those  who  were  standing  in  the 
dock — one  a  brother  of  Bastide,  another  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Yence. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  April  that  the  speeches  of 
counsel  were  commenced.  Whether  as  a  protest  against 
the  attitude  of  the  judges,  or  for  some  other  reason, 
Bastide's  advocate  declined  to  address  the  jury  himself, 
but  furnished  his  client  with  a  carefully  prepared  speech, 
which,  after  the  manner  of  Thurtell,  with  whom  Bastide 
has  some  points  of  likeness,  the  prisoner  declaimed  to  his 
judges.  This  elegant  oration  was  greatly  admired  at  the 
time;  the  King,  Louis  XVIIL,  read  it  over  twice,  and 
the  Academy  deliberated  as  to  whether  it  was  not  worthy 

222 


THE  FUALD£S  CASE 

to  be  crowned  as  a  model  of  forensic  eloquence.  But  its 
effect  in  court  would  seem  to  have  been  less  remarkable, 
as  may  be  expected  from  the  artificial  character  of  its 
delivery.  Bastide  was  thundering  away  from  his  manuscript 
about  the  "  snares  employed  to  persuade  such  vile  creatures 
as  Bach  and  the  woman  Bancal  to  save  their  miserable 
lives  by  perjuring  themselves,11  when  the  President  asked, 
"What  snares  have  been  employed?  Tell  us  all  about 
them.11  But,  as  they  were  not  in  the  manuscript,  Bastide 
was  obliged  to  go  lamely  on  to  the  next  passage.  Again, 
he  was  attacking  Madame  Manzon  :  "  My  defence  against 
her,11  he  said,  "  this  woman  who  is  at  the  same  time 
witness,  accused,  and  accuser,  whom  the  prosecution 
alternately  censure  and  caress,  pitilessly  disgrace  or 
egregiously  exalt,  this  woman  who,  to  avoid  being  dis- 
graced by  the  law,  forces  the  law  to  disgrace  itself " 

Here  the  President  interrupted  him.  "  Bastide,11  he  asked, 
is  this  written  defence  you  are  reading  your  own  com 
position  ? "  "  The  ideas  are  my  own,11  answered  the 
prisoner.  "Well,"  replied  the  judge,  "I  should  advise 
you  to  think  before  you  add  to  your  guilt  or  aggravate 
the  public  resentment.11  The  address  ended  by  an  appeal 
to  the  future,  which,  said  Bastide,  however  the  present 
trial  might  end,  would  one  day  engrave  on  his  tomb  the 
words,  "  He  died  innocent.11 

On  May  4th,  after  a  trial  lasting  thirty-four  days,  and 
more  than  thirteen  months  after  the  murder  of  Fualdes, 
the  jury  convicted  all  the  prisoners,  with  the  exception 
of  Madame  Manzon,  of  having  participated  in  varying 
degree  in  the  crime  of  March  19th,  1817.  Bastide, 
Jausion,  Colard,  Bach,  and  the  woman  Bancal  were,  as  at 
the  previous  trial,  condemned  to  death,  Anne  Benoit  to 
imprisonment  for  life,  and  Missonier  to  two  years1  im- 
prisonment and  a  small  fine.  This  Missonier,  who  seems 
to  have  been  little  better  than  an  idiot,  was  the  only 
one  of  the  prisoners  to  profit  by  a  second  trial,  for  at 


THE   FUALDlte  CASE 

Rodez  he  had  been  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life. 
Jausion,  a  coward  by  nature,  was  as  overcome  by  this 
second  condemnation  as  Bastide  was  to  all  appearances 
still  defiant.  The  former  cried  out  against  his  fate  ;  he 
was  innocent,  they  wanted  to  take  his  money  from  him ; 
it  would  kill  his  children  ;  he  adjured  Bach  to  say  that  he 
was  not  in  the  Baneals1  kitchen  that  night.  "  You  were 
there,"  was  the  only  answer.  The  sentences  on  Bach  and 
la  Bancal  were  not  carried  out,  but  Jausion,  Bastide,  and 
Colard,  after  vainly  appealing  once  again  to  the  Court  of 
Cassation,  were  guillotined  at  Rodez  on  June  3rd.  Even 
the  stout  heart  of  Bastide  failed  him  at  the  supreme 
moment ;  but  not  one  of  the  three  confessed  their  guilt. 
Three  other  persons  implicated  in  the  confessions  of  Bach 
and  la  Bancal,  as  having  been  present  at  the  murder,  were 
subsequently  put  on  their  trial,  but  were  acquitted ; 
justice,  satisfied  with  the  punishment  of  the  principals  in 
the  tragedy,  did  not  inquire  too  curiously  into  the  relative 
guilt  of  the  subordinate  actors. 

Some  thirteen  years  after  the  execution  of  the  murderers, 
a  sinister  discovery  furnished  grim  proof  of  the  good 
fortune  of  Madame  Manzon  and  the  little  Magdeleine 
Bancal  in  not  paying  with  their  lives  for  their  accidental 
presence  at  Fualdes'  assassination.  In  1841,  in  a  garden 
that  at  the  time  of  the  murder  had  belonged  to  Jausion, 
there  were  found  two  skeletons,  and  by  their  side  the 
rotting  keyboards  of  two  hurdy-gurdies.  These  were,  in 
all  probability,  the  remainsof  those  two  itinerant  musicians 
who  had  played  their  instruments  with  such  notable  vigour 
on  the  fatal  night,  but  of  whom  the  magistrates  had 
never  been  able  to  find  any  trace.  In  their  cases  Bastide 
had  evidently  pursued  to  its  logical  conclusion  that  system 
of  making  assurance  doubly  sure,  which  only  the  in- 
adequate villainy  of  Jausion  had  prevented  him  from 
carrying  out  in  the  instances  of  Madame  Manzon  and  the 
little  girl.  Of  these  two,  the  child,  deprived  of  all  pro- 

224 


THE   FUALD^S  CASE 

tection,  drifted  ultimately  into  that  class  to  which  the 
melancholy  surroundings  of  her  childhood  may  be  said  to 
have  predestined  her ;  while  Madame  Manzon,  after  having 
for  a  brief  space  been  "  run  "  by  an  enterprising  showman, 
retired  shortly  after  on  a  Government  pension,  conferred 
on  her  by  the  Due  Decazes,  presumably  as  a  solace  for  her 
trials,  or  a  reward  for  her  heroic  efforts  to  suppress  the 
truth. 

The  murder  of  the  luckless  Fualdes  is  worthy  to  rank 
as  a  famous  cause  celebre,  firstly  for  the  audacity  of  the 
crime  itself,  and  secondly  for  the  strange  mischance  which 
involved  a  vain  and  hysterical  woman  in  the  circumstances 
of  its  investigation.  Both  the  intimidation  of  witnesses, 
which  was  practised  to  such  an  outrageous  extent  by  the 
relatives  and  friends  of  the  principal  criminals,  and  the 
protracted  lying  of  Madame  Manzon,  might  have  been 
rendered  far  less  serious  in  their  results  had  the  authorities, 
immediately  after  the  crime,  acted  with  greater  firmness. 
As  it  was,  the  social  position  of  Jausion  and  Bastide, 
which  made  their  crime  difficult  of  belief,  and  the  relation- 
ship of  Madame  Manzon  to  a  highly  respected  magistrate, 
which  procured  her  at  the  first  peculiar  indulgence,  must 
be  held  in  great  part  accountable  for  the  length  of 
time  that  elapsed  between  the  arrest  and  execution  of  the 
murderers,  and  the  sensational,  if  unsatisfactory,  character 
of  the  first  trial. 


225 


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